


The Fall of Gods

by ImpishTubist



Series: Until the Night is Gone [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Homicide, Hospital Procedures, Illness, Implied past alcoholism, Language, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Permanent Character Injury, Religious Themes, Sexual Content, Violence, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 106,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock remembers a time before Moriarty. It seemed to go on forever. It was over all too quickly.</i>
</p><p>Sherlock finds an ally in death and begins the slow process of dismantling Moriarty's network, not knowing if he'll ever be able to return home. Meanwhile, back in London, John and Lestrade mourn, remember, and move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.
> 
> This is set in the same universe as ["Liaisons,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/446276) though it's not necessary to read that first, or at all. It merely establishes the J/L relationship. 
> 
> This story indulges in a bit of fact-bending in regards to world events. It also takes a few minor liberties in regards to various climates/geographic regions around the world. Don't read on if that will bother you.
> 
> I owe many thanks to Canon_is_Relative and List_of_Lists for their suggestions and guidance.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> _“When a child first catches adults out -- when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just -- his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.”_
> 
> \--John Steinbeck, _East of Eden_
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> 

Sherlock wakes up on a slab in the morgue.   
  
Cold pricks his skin. The chill burns and flares along his limbs, which fail to respond to his brain’s instructions to move. Dimly, he is aware of a woman’s voice, but his assessment of his body’s condition overwhelms his senses and he does not immediately register her words.   
  
_ Two broken bones. Dislocated shoulder. Numerous cuts and bruises. Dried blood on forehead and in hair. _  
  
“Sherlock?”   
  
Someone swipes a cold cloth across his forehead and then begins to clean his face. The movement aggravates an injury he had not noticed at first, and he winces.   
  
_ Pain across zygomatic. Possible fracture. _  
  
“Can you move your fingers?”   
  
_ Fingers numb and unresponsive. Breathing difficulties. Classic signs of panic attack. _  
  
“Sherlock?”   
  
Darkness closes in.   
  
  
The next time Sherlock wakes, his shoulder is back in place. The bones have not yet been set.   
  
“Broke your arm,” Molly’s voice tells him, “and fractured your ankle. I’ll have to set them here. I’m sorry, I don’t have any anesthesia or... or anything to give you. Never really needed them down here, you know?” Her laugh is nervous and, even Sherlock recognizes, completely out of place, given the circumstances. But her blunder is so normal, so _Molly_ , in a world that has been turned upside-down that Sherlock nearly weeps at the sound. What comes out, however, is a groan.   
  
“Do it,” he croaks. He wets bone-dry lips with a sandpaper tongue and adds, “Need to bite... something.”   
  
A leather strap prevents him from cracking his teeth and stifles the worst of his screams. By the end, he has broken into a cold sweat and his jaw aches from biting down, but the bones are set and bound.   
  
He passes out again soon thereafter.   
  
  
When Sherlock comes to for the final time in the morgue, long shadows from the setting sun have cast the room in deep shadow. It is the evening of his death.   
  
He wonders what John is doing now.   
  
Molly gets up from a nearby table when she notices him wake and goes to his side.   
  
“How long?” he rasps.   
  
“A few hours. I figured you needed the rest.” She pushes the hair out of his eyes and adjusts the blanket she had thrown over him earlier. “How do you feel?”   
  
It is remarkable how much her manner towards him has changed in a matter of hours. She has gone from fawning over him to mothering him, and he doesn’t know which is worse.   
  
He opens his mouth to say _Fine_ and says, “Awful,” instead.     
  
“I found some painkillers. You should feel their effect soon.” She helps him into a sitting position. He sways when she lets go, and so she wraps an arm around his shoulders to hold him in place.   
  
“Molly -”   
  
“They’re safe,” she whispers, answering his unasked question. “Moriarty’s dead, and they’re all safe.”   
  
“Mrs Hudson? Lestrade?”   
  
“Everyone.”   
  
“John?”   
  
_ “Everyone _ , Sherlock. I promise. It _worked_. They’re safe.”   
  
Under the cover of darkness, they relocate to her flat. Molly sets about making a meal they both know Sherlock won’t eat and fixes up the sofa for him to sleep on. He takes advantage of the respite from her worry and limps into the loo.  
  
The floor is cold against his bare foot and the light bulb overhead buzzes incessantly. He is still weak and groggy from both his ordeal and from the painkillers, and when the nausea he’s been fighting all night finally kicks him in the gut, he makes it only as far as the sink. The toilet seems a mile further.  
  
Sherlock hasn’t eaten in hours and there is nothing for him to bring up. He retches anyway, his stomach doing its valiant best to tear itself from his body. He rinses his mouth and splashes cool water on his face, and then makes the mistake of lifting his eyes to the mirror.  
  
His face is a map of bruises. The top button of his shirt is undone, and he can see even more on his chest. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is sickly pale. Dried blood still clings to the ends of his hair and is splattered across his face. There is more under his fingernails. He finds a flannel and begins to clean himself more thoroughly.  
  
There is a radiator rattling in the other room, a steady _rat-rat-tap_ that starts to sound more like _pop-pop_ as Sherlock listens. He winces. When he closes his eyes, Sherlock watches a man shake his hand and then die because of it, his chest blown out and his blood landing on Sherlock’s face and lips.  
  
_Rat-rat-tap_  
  
The room lurches violently and he is in a free-fall, the ground too far away and closing in much too fast. He collapses on the floor, presses his uninjured hand against his face and breathes sharply through his nose.  
_ Safe, safe, he is safe. _  
  
But what is _safe,_ anyway?   
  
He has just jumped six stories off a building and must play dead for the foreseeable future so that the others can live. John and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson are perpetual walking targets. They will all be killed in an instant should his ruse ever be discovered. Molly has put herself in the firing line just by helping him; Mycroft has always been under suspicion, by the fact of blood relation alone.   
  
Moriarty is dead, but his web remains.   
  
_ Safe _ . What is safe?   
  
Safe is conditional.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

There is no funeral.

Sherlock would have hated it, John reasons, but the truth of the matter is, he spends the days after Sherlock’s fall in such a grief-induced haze that he cannot even contemplate putting together a funeral. He doesn’t want to be around anyone who even remotely reminds him of Sherlock - not Mrs Hudson, not Angelo, not Mycroft...

And certainly not Greg.

John spends precisely one afternoon in Baker Street before realising that it’s unbearable, and by that evening he is living with his sister. He continues to work at the clinic, because it was the one area of his life that remained largely untouched by Sherlock. He ignores Mrs Hudson’s calls and the occasional vague comment Molly leaves on his website. He makes no attempt to reach out to Greg, but then, Greg hasn’t said a word to him since they identified Sherlock’s body that awful day.

John wonders, not for the first time, how they ever thought they were going to make a relationship work. Greg runs like hell from his problems, and John pretends not to have them.

He’s home alone at Harry’s one night, having just come off a twelve-hour stint at the clinic, when he receives a phone call from an unfamiliar number. He ignores it, but the person tries calling twice more in ten minutes and he can’t help but be intrigued.

But then he gets the text, and anger turns him cold.

_ It’s Donovan. Pick up the phone. _

He sends a sharp text back.

_ Don’t ever contact me again. _

Her response is curt, but effective: _It’s Lestrade_.

“What’s happened?” John demands the moment Donovan picks up the phone.

“He’s fine,” she tells him quickly. “Well... he’s not injured, at least.”

John lets out a breath and wills his heart to slow.

“Why the hell are you trying to call me, then?” he snaps when he can manage it. “And how the hell did you get this number?”

“Lifted it off the boss’s phone. And save your indignation about that, we’ve got bigger problems to deal with.” Donovan lets out a slow breath, and then says, “Look, he’s going to be fired.”

_ “What?” _

“Oh, for God’s sake, do you follow the news at all?”

And the truth is, no, John doesn’t. He hasn’t since the day after Sherlock died. He saw immediately which way the winds were going to blow; saw that Sherlock was going to be made into a fraud and that the Met was going to be eviscerated for allowing him to help with their cases. He couldn’t handle watching that spiral, and has avoided the news as much as possible since.

“No,” he admits finally.

“It’s not been pretty,” Donovan says. “And it’s about to get worse. They’re laying the blame solely on Lestrade. He’s going to be made into a spectacle, and then he’s going to be fired.”

“Why are you telling me this?” John asks.

There is a pause.

“Because he could use a friend right now,” she says finally, “and, as his subordinate, I can’t be that for him. You can.”

“What makes you think I can?” John asks cautiously, because he and Greg are a careful couple--if, indeed, that’s still what they are. Only a handful of people know about them, and none of them work at the Yard.

“Call it a hunch,” Donovan says, and she hangs up before John can respond.

\-----

The Yard is deserted when John arrives at quarter after ten that night.

_ Almost _ deserted.

The lights are off in Greg’s office, but John can make out the glow of a computer screen from under the door. He knocks, lightly at first, and then harder when he receives no answer. When more seconds pass without a response from Greg, he knows he’s being ignored.

“Greg, it’s me,” he says finally, lamely. “Can I come in? Just for a moment.”

There is a lengthy pause, and then: “Yeah, come in.”

Greg is standing by the window, watching the rain. The weak light from the computer screen outlines the stiff line of his shoulders, which are tight with tension, and the back of a rumpled suit that he’s been wearing for too long. Knowing Greg, he probably hasn’t left the building in more than a day.

He doesn’t turn around when John enters. John walks over to his desk and turns on a small lamp, which casts a small circle of warm illumination around them both.

“Greg,” he says, soft.

Greg finally turns around. His eyes are tight at the corners and deep parentheses frame his mouth. His face is ashen under his tan and there are deep pools of purple under his eyes--the result of too many nights awake and too many days spent under scrutiny.

Never before has John felt the gulf of the years that separate them, but it is evident tonight. This is not the vibrant man who whisked him away for a spontaneous and passionate weekend abroad not three months ago.

But then, John himself is no longer that enthusiastic lover, either. The times have changed them.

“John,” Greg says, his voice quiet and unemotional. “Hello.”

“How’ve you been?” John attempts, but the words sound forced even to his own ears.

Greg crosses his arms and regards John carefully.

“Whatever Sally told you, it’s true,” he says at last. “They’ve launched an inquiry. I’ve managed to keep my team out of it, but I’ll probably lose the job.”

His words are short and clipped, as though he’s reading from a report.

“They can’t fire you,” John protests. He doesn’t even bother to ask how Greg knew about Donovan’s call. “How can they possibly claim not to have known about Sherlock? You held press conferences with him, for God’s sake.”

“I turned sensitive cases and information over to a civilian,” Greg says, still in that flat, steady voice. _“That’s_ what matters. As it should. Did you really expect this not to be the outcome?”

“Are you fighting it?”

“I’m letting it run its proper course,” Greg says, lifting his chin in slight defiance. “No matter how inevitable or... unpleasant the conclusion.”

He’s accepting the punishment he feels he deserves, John realises, not because of how he handled his job, but because of his involvement in Sherlock’s final hours.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” John says softly, and he’s not speaking about Greg’s job anymore.

Greg looks away, and his jaw tightens.

“I was the one who put him in handcuffs.”

But Greg was protecting Sherlock the way he had always done, by keeping him close and keeping him well, even if the only way he could accomplish that was by lock and key.

“And I punched the Superintendent,” John points out quietly. “The handcuffs would have stayed on him otherwise, if not for that. And that way he wouldn’t have been able to...”

John trails off.

“Anyway, I just came down here to see how you’re doing.”

Greg snorts.

“And what’s your conclusion, doctor?” he says icily. John’s breath hitches in his throat at the bitterness in Greg’s voice.

“Don’t,” he says, and instantly Greg’s face falls.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m... I’m fine. You didn’t have to come all the way down here, but thank you.”

John nods, a hole digging its way into the pit of his stomach. The conversation has drawn to a close before he was ready for it, and he doesn’t know when they will speak again.

“Right, then,” he says. “I’ll just... um, call me, would you? Sometime. Just... let me know how it goes.”

He’s halfway over the threshold when Greg’s voice calls him back.

“Come stay with me.”

John turns, and blinks at him in surprise.

“With you?” he blurts, harsher than he’d intended. Greg shrugs.

“I know I haven’t been the best at...” he waves a hand vaguely through the air, letting the unfinished thought sit between them. “But you can have a room of your own at my place, which has to be a far sight better than your sister’s sofa. And I can’t say I’d mind having one friendly face in my life.”

He hesitates a moment and then adds, “And... hell. I miss you.”

John nods, his throat thick.

“Miss you, too,” he manages. And then he closes the distance between them, takes Greg’s face in his hands and kisses him, as though only minutes had passed since their last meeting as opposed to horrible, dreadful days.

Greg’s hands come to rest on John’s hips, and his lips are swollen and his breathing ragged when John finally pulls away.

“Right, then,” John says, slightly breathless. “I’ll come stay. With you.”

He brushes a thumb across Greg’s red lower lip and adds, “But I won’t be needing that spare bedroom.”

Greg gives a weak, rasping laugh and pulls John close again, his embrace so tight that it borders on painful.

John clutches him in return and breathes a sigh of relief against his shoulder, feeling the world right itself ever so slightly.

\----

The first time Mycroft sees Sherlock after his death, he doesn’t bother to ask how his brother has been doing. Sherlock is distinctly grateful for this. Even two weeks after his fall, he doesn’t trust himself not to answer the question with painful honesty.

Mycroft also doesn’t bother to waste time with meaningless greetings. Instead, the first words out of his mouth are, “What is it you’ll need?”

“Money,” Sherlock answers immediately. Mycroft nods.

“Consider it done. What else?”

Sherlock rakes his left hand through his hair; his right arm, still in its sling, rests against his chest. They are sitting in Molly’s main room, Sherlock on the sofa while Mycroft perches on a nearby chair. Sherlock has been staying with Molly ever since his fall, as there is very little he can accomplish at this point with the injuries he sustained.

“New clothes. Outfits Sherlock Holmes generally wouldn’t wear. A haircut and dye job, too, but Molly can assist me with that,” Sherlock decides finally. He has his legs crossed underneath him, and his right foot bulges under his sock due to the bandage that holds the joint carefully in place. He picks at a loose thread at the seam of his jeans, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. He has been abnormally distracted as of late. He supposes dying would have that effect on a person. “A few forged identities to get me started. And I left a number of necessary items at Baker Street.”

“Make a list of the items you require. I can send someone over there under the pretense of picking up some of your belongings for me to keep. Sentiment.” Mycroft flashes him a not-quite smile. “They always fall for it.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums absently, hoping to steer the conversation back to more pertinent topics. He has no desire to discuss Baker Street. It’s bad enough that his mind keeps straying, unbidden, to John. According to Mycroft, he’s been staying with Lestrade and has yet to even step foot back in the flat.

“You also need to leave the country,” Mycroft says gravely. “As soon as possible, I should think.”

“For once, we agree.”

“Leave?” Molly sticks her head around the corner and glowers at Mycroft. “He can’t _leave_. Look at the state he’s in!”

“Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft says patiently, “much as I appreciate your concern, I’m afraid we have bigger issues here than a few broken bones. The longer my brother stays in the country, the greater the risk is that someone will discover he’s alive. Right now, Moriarty’s network believes him to be dead, and so we all are safe. Should the unthinkable happen, I assure you none of us would remain alive for long enough to regret not sending Sherlock away sooner.”

“He’s right,” Sherlock says quietly. “I’m sorry, Molly, but he is. Could you give us a minute?”

Molly nods wordlessly and slips away again, retreating hastily to the back of the flat.

“We need to discuss your plan to take down Moriarty’s network,” Mycroft continues once she is gone, and Sherlock’s lips thin.

“What of it?” Sherlock snaps in irritation. “That’s hardly any business of yours. The fewer people who know about it, the better for all around.”

“I fear it’s not going to be quite as straightforward as we were imagining.” Mycroft pulls out a piece of paper and hands it over to Sherlock. “And before you ask, I’ve already had it analyzed. There was nothing to find, as you can well imagine.”

Sherlock unfolds the piece of paper and skims the contents. 

“A letter of condolence?” he says in confusion. 

_ … very sorry to hear about the death of your brother... _

“Delivered right to my front door,” Mycroft says. “Despite the bodyguards, the security system, and the three dogs. And look at the signature.”

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock mutters. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Neither had I.” Mycroft hands over a thin file folder. “Unfortunately, neither has the rest of the world. That’s all the information I could gather about him. It seems as though Moriarty’s death didn’t quite create the power vacuum we had been hoping for. He had a second-in-command, Sherlock.”

“Sebastian Moran inherited the network,” Sherlock realizes. 

“This letter was a warning, Sherlock.” Mycroft looks grave. “It’s a display of his power. Moran wants us - _me_ \- to know that he’s out there. And what he’s capable of.” 

“So he’s inherited Moriarty’s web. But a web is only as strong as its individual strands. Cut them, and the spider falls.”

“Cut the strands, and from the vibrations the spider will know something is amiss almost at once.”

“Then I’ll have to work quickly.”

“And you’ll have to work with the best.”

Sherlock draws his brows together in a frown, the conversation having taken a turn he was not prepared for.

“I mean to work alone. The fewer people who know about this operation, the better. Success hinges upon no one finding out about this plan. You and Molly knowing is dangerous enough.” He rests accusing eyes on Mycroft. “ _Especially_ you knowing.”

“I feel the risk of bringing this particular person in on your scheme is not greater than the benefits of doing so.”

“You don’t get to make that decision.”

“Nonetheless, I already have.” Mycroft looks irritatingly smug. “I helped you to die, dear brother. Don’t you feel as though that should grant me _some_ say in what you do in this _afterlife_ of yours? After all, yours is not the only future that depends on the success of this mission. You will be removed from the country and sent to finish out the rest of your recuperation with my operative. Then, when you have sufficiently healed, he will assist you on your mission.”

Curiosity finally gets the better of Sherlock and he starts to ask, “Who -”

“You’ll find out, soon enough,” Mycroft interrupts. “I’ll be contacting you when we’re ready to proceed. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” Mycroft stands, and flashes a grim smile. “I’ve your burial to arrange.”

~~ \---- ~~

Two weeks after Sherlock’s fall, John comes home from work to find Mycroft Holmes standing outside Greg’s building, smoking. It’s a sight eerily reminiscent of the day he found out about Irene Adler’s death, and at once John is on-edge.

“Come on up, then,” he says without preamble. “I assume you’re here for a reason?”

“And a rather good one,” Mycroft puts in, and he follows John up the three flights of stairs to Greg’s flat.

“Tea?” John offers automatically once they’re inside, though he hopes Mycroft will refuse.

“No,” Mycroft says, picking up on his demeanor. “I won’t be taking up that much of your time.”

“John? Who’re you talking to?” Greg comes down the hall, pulling a t-shirt on over his head. He’s just had a shower, and appears to have toweled off in a rush. The shirt clings to his torso where his skin is still damp. He then runs a hand through his hair, mussing it even further, and for a moment looks as carefree as John’s seen since Sherlock’s fall. But then his gaze lands on Mycroft, and his expression turns thunderous.

“Ah, Inspector -”

“Get out,” Greg snaps. He positions himself between Mycroft and John, crossing his arms.

“I’m here to speak to John -”

“You’ve no right to even say his _name_ , let alone come into his home--not after what you did to Sherlock. You want to talk to him, set up an appointment. At your office.”

“Greg.” John places a hand on his forearm. “I can handle this. It’s all right.”

“It’s _not_ -”

“You’re right.” John gives him a sad smile. “It’s not. But he’s here now, so I may as well hear what he has to say. Can you get started on dinner? I was thinking chicken for tonight.”

Greg considers him a moment, and then gives a tight nod. He walks away, shoulders stiff, never once looking back at Mycroft.

John gestures to a chair, which Mycroft takes with a nod of thanks. John sits on the sofa.

“Greg’s right,” he says after a moment. “In the future, if you want to talk to me, set up an appointment. The next time you come into this flat, I’m throwing you out on your arse.”

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow, but nods. “Don’t worry, Doctor Watson. I’ll have no further need to associate with you after this final bit of... business.”

“What is it?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, and John carefully schools his expression. He hopes it appears neutral.

“Oh?”

“First, I must thank you for identifying the body. I was otherwise occupied in Panama - well. You understand. I had other more pressing dealings.”

No, John doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t care enough to mention that. He has no desire to prolong the conversation, and wants Mycroft out as soon as possible.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says instead. “Look, if we could come to the point -”

“We need to discuss the burial,” Mycroft says, and John tries to cover the fact that it feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“Ah,” he says, and hopes it sounds steady. “Er... I suppose Sherlock never documented his wishes?”

Mycroft levels him with a look. “Come now, John. Do you really think Sherlock cared what happened to him after his death?”

Fair point, John concedes mentally.

“I’d have said donate his body to science, but, well...” John trails off. Falling six stories was not something that the human body was designed to withstand. John had gone with Greg to identify the body, and could tell from a cursory glance that Sherlock had crushed several bones in his face, arm, and leg. The damage within would have been greater. His body was of no use to anyone in that state, and Mycroft had ordered it cremated. John hadn’t thought about it since, preoccupied as he was with Greg and trying to function properly amid his grief.

“He is to be buried,” Mycroft says firmly. “The question is, where?”

“Oh,” John says. “Er... have your parents -?”

He realises then how little he knows - knew - about Sherlock’s life. If he had living parents, he never mentioned them. Mycroft smiles indulgently.

“Our mother is still living. Father is buried in the family plot, but surely you are aware of my brother’s disdain for familial relations. I will have him buried there, if you wish. It is always an option. But I thought I might as well offer you the choice. You knew him better than any of us.”

John would have disputed that on a normal day--Greg and Mrs Hudson had known him longer, for one--but he’s grown weary of this conversation and doesn’t wish to prolong it.

“Bury him next to Victor.”

John looks up; Mycroft turns around. Greg is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes are on Mycroft.

“Sherlock was never one for sentiment,” he says. “But I am, and he doesn’t have the _luxury_ of planning his own burial. So I say that he should be buried next to Victor. He deserves that much. See that it’s done.”

Mycroft stares at him for a long moment, and then looks at John.

John has no idea who Victor could possibly be, but Greg’s expression is murderous and so he says, “Do it. And as soon as possible.”

Mycroft nods. “As you wish.”

“Good.” Greg lifts his chin defiantly. “Now get out of our flat.”

\----

Dinner that night is a relatively quiet affair.

Afterwards, John and Greg retire to the main room. John opens his laptop out of habit, as he used to blog after dinner while he still lived at Baker Street. Now, with Sherlock gone, he finds that has nothing left to say. He checks his email perfunctorily and then shuts the device down, opting for a book instead. Greg stretches out on the sofa and watches crap telly through heavy-lidded eyes. He hasn’t slept well this week, and it’s starting to take a toll.

Half an hour passes. John plods through only three pages in his book because, much as he would rather think on more pleasant matters, his mind keeps straying.

Mycroft’s visit had left him with more questions than answers, and a bit of digging around on Sherlock’s blog had only given him a sliver of information--Victor’s last name was Trevor, and he was a mathematician Sherlock had consulted with during one of the earliest cases documented on his website. The name only comes up once on the blog and then vanishes forever.

Greg finally sighs, and the sound snaps John from his thoughts.

“What is it, Johnny?”

“What?”

“You’ve been fidgeting all evening, it’s damned distracting,” Greg grumbles, but his words lack true heat.

“Who’s Victor?”

The question is out before John has a chance to properly phrase it, but Greg blinks at him in surprise.

“You don’t know?”

John shakes his head.

“No. Sherlock never mentioned him.”

“Oh, God.” Greg pushes himself into a sitting position with a groan and rubs the back of his neck wearily. “I had no idea. He... Well, he was a friend of Sherlock’s. Decent lad. I met him around the same time Sherlock started consulting for us, and he even helped Sherlock out with one of our first cases together. They were...”

“They were lovers,” John realises as Greg trails off.

“They were together,” Greg decides. “Lovers... who knows. But God, John, I’ve never seen something that intense. It was _magnetic_. Rolled off of them in waves, it did. The entire room crackled when they were together. I know, it sounds mad, but...” Greg trails off again, shakes his head. “Anyway, Victor died. About three years before you came along.”

“How?”

“Car crash.” Greg looks away for a moment, remembering. “Sherlock took it badly, as you can well imagine. The night you moved in to Baker Street... well, that wasn’t the first time I’ve had to search his place for drugs. And the other times weren’t for show.”

“God.” John shakes his head. “Hell, Greg, I had _no_ idea. None at all. Sherlock never said...”

Greg sighs through his nose. 

“He got better with you, you know. I think you made him realise that there can be a life after grief. But it wasn’t the same. It’s never the same, not after that.” He passes a hand over his mouth, thinking back. “Victor was a brilliant kid; it was easy to see why Sherlock found him so fascinating. Officially, he was a mathematician, but I know he did a little work for Mycroft. God only knows what it was, but there were times when he’d disappear for weeks on end.”

Greg gives a tiny smile then and adds, softly, “Sherlock missed him terribly during those absences, though he’d never admit it. He took to breaking into my flat whenever Victor was out of town. Git.”

“How long were they together?”

Greg shrugs. 

“For as long as I knew Sherlock, certainly. Think they met at university, if I remember right. Guess that makes it... ten, eleven years before Victor died? Something like that.”

John lets out a low whistle.

“Who would have thought,” he says finally, “that, out of all of us, _Sherlock’s_ the one who managed to pull off a relationship like that?”

Greg’s eyes are dark when they meet John’s, and his gaze is suddenly earnest.

“May we all be so lucky, Johnny."  



	3. Chapter 3

The first time Sherlock leaves Molly’s flat, it is to visit his own grave.   


  
It’s been days since his brother’s visit, and in the wake of it Sherlock is left feeling bereft and adrift. His plans are no longer his own, and he has no way of knowing what Mycroft has in store for him. Molly’s flat, then, is cramped and oppressive, and he needs to get _out_.    
  
Molly frets, because they haven’t yet disguised him and he insists on wearing his customary--and very recognizable--coat. But eventually she gives in, and she always does, and drives him to the cemetery.   
  
Unfortunately, someone has already beaten them to the freshly-dug gravesite.   
  
“Oh,” Molly breathes, joining Sherlock on the hill after she’s parked the car.   
  
“He’s visiting me,” Sherlock says, surprised, watching as John and Mrs Hudson approach his grave.   
  
“Well.... yes,” Molly says uncomfortably. “Of course he would.”   
  
Mrs Hudson walks away after a few minutes, leaving John alone. Sherlock narrows his eyes, wondering why his flatmate doesn’t follow. He watches as John brings a hand to his mouth and looks away from the grave, as though the sight physically pains him. Never, not once in their eighteen months living together, had Sherlock seen John come even remotely close to cracking, not even when his mother had been in hospital last winter.   
  
But here, before the grave of a man he had known for only a fraction of his life... here, John is coming undone.   
  
Sherlock half-turns to his companion.   
  
“Molly, would you -”   
  
“Yeah, of course,” she says quickly, and leaves him.   
  
John appears to be talking to his grave, though Sherlock can’t make out the words. Foolish, speaking to an inanimate object. Sherlock would have scoffed, had he been there with John.   
  
_ Says the man visiting a grave he knows to be empty, and his own at that _ .   
  
Sherlock had never once visited Victor’s grave, not even on the day he was buried, and that grave at least is real. No body rests under the headstone John is talking to, and yet Sherlock has to come see it for himself anyway.   
  
It hasn’t escaped Sherlock’s notice that Victor’s remains are mere steps away from where his own body supposedly rests under the earth, and he wonders if that is Mycroft’s doing. His brother has never understood sentimentality, but he has learned enough from observations to be able to feign it spectacularly. It certainly can’t have been John’s idea, as Sherlock never told him about Victor. Perhaps Lestrade had a hand in the whole thing, and Sherlock wants to feel disdain for the grotesque display of sentiment.   
  
But part of him finds it inexplicably comforting, knowing that their gravesites are so close to one another. Mostly, he feels hollow, because if he should die on this mission, only two people in the world will know about it, and his remains will never rest beside Victor’s. It shouldn’t matter; somehow, it does.   
  
Mrs Hudson has long since disappeared by the time Sherlock pulls himself from his thoughts, probably back to a waiting cab, and the rest of the graveyard is empty. Sherlock balls his hands into fists in his pockets; grits his teeth. He shifts his feet. John is mere steps away. All Sherlock has to do is walk down the hill, grab his arm, and take him along.   
  
_ I said dangerous, and here you are _ .   
  
But now there is Lestrade to consider. Sherlock knows that it would be too much to ask John to keep Lestrade in the dark, and if all three of them were to disappear... Well, Moran would certainly notice that, even if he wasn’t looking for it. And then the snipers would take their shots.    
  
Sherlock suppresses a sigh. Selflessness has got him this far; there seems little use in abandoning it now.   
  
His mobile buzzes, and Sherlock pulls it out of his pocket. Message from Mycroft.   
  
_ It’s time. _  
  
  
Mycroft’s car comes for him later that afternoon. Sherlock gets in, and is greeted--to his surprise--by his brother.   
  
“Doing your own dirty work?”   
  
“I thought I should see you off.”   
  
“Sentiment.”   
  
“Hardly.” Mycroft hands him a briefcase. “Here are your identities. I trusted no one else to deliver them.”   
  
“You gave me up to Moriarty,” Sherlock snarls abruptly, because it still stings. Mycroft has always known how much the work means to him. It is _everything_. “I’d hardly call you trustworthy.”   
  
“I did what was necessary to keep the country safe.”   
  
“Letting a criminal mastermind go was hardly in Britain’s best interests.”   
  
“Seeing as he’s now dead, I don’t lose too much sleep over that decision, and this is not the place for this conversation. Nor the time.” Mycroft crosses his ankle over his knee, leaning back in the seat. “Your plane leaves at five. Are you really going to wear those clothes?”   
  
Sherlock’s brows snap together at the abrupt segue. “What’s wrong with them?”   
  
“Pretty well everything, dear brother, but never fear,” Mycroft says, laying a hand on his uninjured arm. Sherlock resists the urge to shake him off. “We’ll take care of it.”   
  
“Where - ”   
  
The question has barely left Sherlock’s lips before there is a prick just inside his elbow and a drug slides stealthily up his veins, stealing consciousness from him in one swift blow.   
  
It is answered for him hours later, when he wakes up in France.   
  
\----   
  
The Yard’s inquiry draws to a close not long after Sherlock is buried, and it leaves John feeling hollow. He has just buried his best friend and Greg has likely just lost his job, and certainly those two events should have occurred with a bang rather than coming to a quiet close. The burial was anticlimactic and uneventful; the only reason John knows about the inquiry’s end is because of Greg’s curt text earlier that afternoon:   
  
_ All over. Will talk about it tonight _ .    
  
But when Greg comes home that night he appears stunned rather than resigned, and he says, “I’ve... kept my job.”   
  
_ “What?” _ John asks in surprise. “You’re kidding.”   
  
Greg cracks a wry grin.   
  
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Johnny,” he says dryly, and John glares.   
  
“Not what I meant, and you know it. What did they say?”   
  
Greg shakes his head, the humour leaving his eyes.    
  
“Nothing I could make sense of, t’be honest. They talked themselves in a circle, trying to explain why they were letting me keep the job while really telling me nothing at all. I will say, however, that they all looked distinctly uncomfortable about the whole business.”   
  
And that’s when it clicks for John.   
  
“Mycroft,” he says, and Greg grimaces but nods.   
  
“I’d bet the flat on it,” he says darkly.   
  
“So... what? Is this his attempt at peacemaking? A _thank you?_ ” John can feel himself growing angry as he talks. “An apology for having given his brother up to Moriarty?”   
  
“Take your pick,” Greg says. He moves to make a drink and offers one to John, who declines with a wordless shake of his head. “Any and all of the above. Or maybe I’m still useful to him, even with Sherlock gone.”   
  
John comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder.    
  
“Whatever the reason,” he says finally, hoping to ease the tension in Greg’s face, “you kept the job. That’s good, right?”   
  
“I’d’ve liked to have kept it on my own merit, not because someone interfered. I don’t want a position I’ve not earned,” Greg says bitterly. He then gives a resigned sigh. “‘Course, if that were really true, I’d’ve quit on the spot. But I took their false apologies and a job offer they clearly didn’t want to give. Dunno what that makes me, but I did it anyway.”   
  
“It makes you sensible,” John tells him. “And the best damn officer the Met has at its disposal. Even Sherlock said so, in his own way. They’d be lost without you.”   
  
He gives Greg a swift kiss and is rewarded with the closest thing to a genuine smile that he’s seen on Greg’s face in days.   
  
\----   
  
Sherlock wakes on a small plane as it taxis down a runway, and is informed by the pilot that they’ve landed in France.   
  
“Can’t tell you where, though,” the pilot says before he can ask. “Orders from on high.”   
  
“Of course,” Sherlock sneers and, not for the first time, curses Mycroft to hell and back. _Drugging him_ , of all things, the useless bastard. He ignores--for once--the rational voice in the back of his head that reminds him that Mycroft is responsible for his having survived the fall and pushes himself into a sitting position. He runs a hand through his hair as he surveys the scenery outside the small window, but the gesture does little to wake him up. He then scrubs a hand across his face; pinches the bridge of his nose; cracks his neck. That does nothing to shake the lingering grogginess and so Sherlock gives up, turning his attention instead to his disguise.   
  
He finds that he’s been dressed in loose jeans, a t-shirt, and a black jumper that is only slightly less hideous than John’s oatmeal one, and doesn’t want to think about whose responsibility it was to dress him after he’d been knocked unconscious. A glance at his reflection in the window tells Sherlock that his hair is now the colour of rust and about three centimeters shorter than it was yesterday. He will still have to keep a low profile, for his features are too distinctive. While no one would recognize him on a first glance, a second would probably arouse their suspicions and a third would confirm them.   
  
“There’s water in the back,” the pilot informs him, and Sherlock limps to the back of the plane, where he finds a stash of water and various foodstuffs. He eats half a bag of peanuts and downs an entire bottle of water; by the time the plane halts, he’s gathered his things and is marginally more awake. The drug is still lingering in his system, rather persistently, but he pushes it aside as much as he can. There’s work to be done.   
  
A car takes him to the edge of a forest, and the driver gives him instructions from there.   
  
“Straight ahead, Mr. Armitage,” he says, using Sherlock’s alias. Likely, he doesn’t even know that it’s not Sherlock’s name. “Due north, until you come across the path. Then you’re to head east on it until you come upon a house. It’s the only one in these woods; you can’t miss it.”   
  
Sherlock shakes the driver’s hand in thanks and the other man leaves. He then slings the heavier of his two bags across his back and holds the smaller one in his left hand. His right arm remains in a sling, and the bones won’t be fully healed for three more weeks at the least. His ankle had only been fractured, and so nearly three weeks after his fall he is at least able to manage some semblance of walking. But progress is still slow-going, and he is thankful that no one is at his side.   
  
_ John wouldn’t have minded _ .   
  
He shoves the thought angrily away. He would give the world, and then some, to have John with him now. But all of this is _for_ John. For John, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. Having John at his side would have meant John’s death, and Sherlock can’t abide that. He _won’t_.   
  
Never again.   
  
He comes upon the house within the hour. It is plain and unassuming, and settled in a small clearing. The path is well-worn, indicating that it has been trod often, but there is no car or other means of transportation.    
  
When Sherlock lifts a hand to knock on the door, it swings open before his knuckles can come into contact with the warm wood.   
  
“Mr Armitage,” the man on the other side greets briskly. “You’re early.”   
  
Sherlock looks the man up and down, once, eyes flicking from his bare feet to the tips of his bleached locks. He feels as though someone has landed a blow to his chest, but he is too good of an actor to show it. Sherlock knows that his expression is neutral. What the rest of the world wouldn’t know--except for this not-stranger, who has always seen right through Sherlock--is that it is taking every last one of his reserves to keep it that way.   
  
Sherlock sniffs, says, “You look rubbish as a blond,” and pushes his way inside.   
  
Victor Trevor closes the door with a quiet _snick_.   
  
“Hello to you, too, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> Victor Trevor is a character from ACD canon, and appears in “The Adventure of the ‘Gloria Scott.’” This is not intended to be the same Victor Trevor that appears in [“Gravity”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/490349) and [“Fathers...,”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/548664) though you are welcome to indulge in a bit of fanfic-canon bending if you wish.
> 
> * * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks must be given to [Kim](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notluvulongtime), who made [a lovely photoset](http://notluvulongtime.tumblr.com/post/45066522130/after-the-fall-victor-trevor-sherlock-holmes)for me that was inspired by this story. I know most of the fandom has adopted Tom Hiddleston as Victor Trevor, but that's not the case with this fic. She was so lovely to use my headcanon!Victor. Thank you so much, dear!
> 
> Now that all the players have been introduced, please note: in the event of me having to warn for character death, _major characters_ in this particular story are Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Victor Trevor. Everyone else is a _minor character_.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> _“You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?...I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a minute’s chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits and energy, the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some subjects in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he was as friendless as I. Finally, he invited me down to his father’s place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, and I accepted his hospitality for a month of the long vacation.”_
> 
>  
> 
> -“The Adventure of the ‘Gloria Scott,’”   
> _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_
> 
> * * *

Sherlock pushes past Victor and into the dim foyer--a light bulb’s burned out just above the door, not recently, and Victor hasn’t replaced it. As a result, the entryway is steeped in shadows, and when the door shuts Victor is reduced to little more than a silhouette. Sherlock forces his gaze away from Victor and balls his free hand into a fist to try to stem the sudden tremors that wrack it.

This cannot be happening.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, but that only makes things worse. His other senses reach out, trying to close the gap. His ears are filled with the rustling of Victor’s clothes as he moves to do up the locks again, and the smell of sharp pine nearly overwhelms him. Victor’s cologne. Sixteen years since the day they met--nearly half Sherlock’s lifetime--and some things hadn’t changed.

Sherlock forces open his eyes and catches sight of a painting on the wall. It is a seascape, bland and unassuming, and Sherlock focuses on it in an effort to calm his racing thoughts. A dead man is standing less than a foot away from him and Sherlock can’t even begin to fathom how he came to be here. He observes nothing because there is nothing to observe, just as Victor intended, and it makes him virtually blind.

He is adrift, without answers, and it is terrifying.

“Let me take that for you,” Victor says, gesturing to the bag Sherlock is holding, but Sherlock jerks away from him involuntarily and takes a step back. When Victor speaks again, his voice is low and tinged with regret. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, Sherlock. Truly.”

Sherlock ignores him, turning his attention to other objects in the foyer, trying to get a read of some kind, a read on _anything_ at all.

“You haven’t left this house in three days,” Sherlock says stiffly after a moment again spent contemplating the burned-out light. He turns abruptly and strides down the hallway as fast as his ankle allows. Victor follows him at a much more sedate pace. The corridor opens into a spacious and sparse main room, and Sherlock drops his bags by the sofa.

Victor pauses in the entryway, his hands tucked in his trouser pockets, and the moment they lock eyes Sherlock forgets what he’d been about to say. It’s reminiscent of their time together at school, when the mere act of their arms accidentally brushing would shatter Sherlock’s concentration for minutes on end, or when Victor’s smile--rare, and it had to be earned--would knock Sherlock’s brain offline.

He’s filled out since Sherlock last saw him, and he has a hint of softness about the edges that has come with age. His face is fuller and his eyes are grey; the former is natural, and the latter is due to coloured contacts. His hair, once brown, has been dyed a dusty blond, and he’s grown a beard. It is neatly trimmed and flecked here and there with grey, which Victor has not bothered to cover up. There is also something off about his face, as though his features have shifted slightly, but Sherlock can’t pin it down. 

Victor has rolled the sleeves of his dark brown pullover halfway up his tanned forearms, and he’s wearing a beaten pair of fitted jeans. The outfit is a far cry from the sharply-cut Daniel Hechter suits he used to wear like a second skin. But he taps one toe absently against the wood floor in a nervous rhythm that is a remnant of the past; an old habit that has followed him through the years and across the Channel. This is _Victor_ , despite the years and disguise that separate him from his past self. Something lurches behind Sherlock’s navel as they stare at one another and he swallows, turning away so that Victor can’t read the revealing emotion in his face. 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Victor asks finally, tentatively, and it is too much. This cannot be happening, this _shouldn’t_ be happening, and Sherlock can’t even begin to figure out what’s going on here. He has no data, no theories, and a dead man is offering him a drink.

“Don’t talk to me,” Sherlock snarls. He needs to get _out_ , get away from this puzzle that makes no sense and this man who shouldn’t exist.

He strides from the room, pace hampered by his damaged ankle, and at the end of yet another corridor he finds Victor’s study and a dead end. He pauses inside, chest heaving, leaning against the windowsill for support as his ankle throbs in protest. He rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window, sucking in great lungfuls of air through his nose while the world spins around him and confusion clouds his mind. 

_ This cannot be happening.  _

\------

Victor waits for three full minutes before following Sherlock down the corridor. 

Sherlock is standing in Victor’s study, his back to the open door, shoulders hunched as he leans against the window. Victor lingers just inside the door so as not to crowd Sherlock, but he does reach over and turn on a lamp, and its soft illumination fills only a portion of the large room.

Sherlock stiffens, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me,” Victor says, gently as he can manage. “Please.”

Sherlock straightens, presses the back of his hand to his nose. Finally, he turns around.

“Where are we?” he asks, his words attempting to be biting and failing utterly. He simply looks worn; defeated.

Victor doesn’t respond. It’s the first time he’s seen Sherlock in proper light in four years, and though he’s had three days to steel himself for this moment, he still pauses when Sherlock turns to face him.

The years have been kind to Sherlock, far kinder than they were to Victor. He is still the height of asymmetry, his features so curious that they are unforgettable, and so unique that they are deemed beautiful. The last time Victor had seen Sherlock, the flesh of youth was still lingering around his cheekbones and the hollows of his collarbone, making him appear to be a teenager even into his twenties. In the years since Victor’s supposed death, Sherlock’s features have sharpened and grown more distinctive. He wears all of his thirty-three years with a careful grace born of his nature and breeding, and he wears them well.

Victor clears his throat, mentally shaking himself, and walks over to the antique liquor cabinet. It serves mainly as decoration in the largely-empty room; he hasn’t used it more than a handful of times since being relocated to this house.

“France,” he says mildly, knowing that Sherlock has already figured that much out, if Mycroft hasn’t informed him already.

Sherlock’s tone is chilly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Victor pulls out various bottles; considers them before putting them back. “But that’s all you’re getting.”

“Oh, this is _intolerable_ ,” Sherlock snarls. He turns away from the window and limps over to the fireplace, apparently looking for a distraction so that he can avoid eye contact with his former lover. Victor watches as his gaze travels over the painting of the tall ship that hangs on the brick wall. A hunting rifle sits on the mantel just below it, and Sherlock reaches out to stroke the barrel with one long finger.

“Sentiment,” he mutters derisively, because the gun is Victor’s father’s. It’s the first weapon, in fact, that Victor ever held. Henry Trevor had often joked to family friends--or anyone who would listen to him--that his son had learned how to fire a gun before he could walk. Inaccurate though that was, the sentiment was nevertheless sound - Victor was a far better shot than even Mycroft’s professionally-trained men.

“I never thought you would submit to drugs, of all things,” Victor says in return. “Cocaine?”

“It’s been years,” Sherlock says tightly. He takes a seat on the small sofa, the movement losing some of its dramatic flair with his injured limbs and without the aid of his long coat.

“Obviously,” Victor says, needing only a glance at Sherlock’s eyes and left wrist to see that it’s true. “Not for two, at least, though you also only started less than five years ago.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything in response now that he knows that Victor can read him just as well as he used to back when they were at school together.

“A life in hiding seems to have done you well,” he says eventually, words scathing even though he delivers them with a sudden, chilly smile. “What is it you’re going by, now? It appears to have slipped my mind since Mycroft told me. Scotch, neat.”

Victor pours Sherlock’s usual drink and hands it to him. Sherlock accepts it with a nod and rests the glass casually on his knee, not drinking from it.

“That’s because Mycroft _didn’t_ tell you,” Victor says. He pours himself a glass of water from a pewter pitcher. “You know me far better than _that_ , Sherlock. Do try to be a bit less obvious when you’re digging for information. While you’re on the premises, _Victor_ will suffice.”

“And when we’re not _on the premises_?”

“I’ll no more be going by any of my current aliases than you’ll be going by _Sherlock_ , so they needn’t concern you.” Victor drinks from his glass of water; eyes Sherlock’s in disapproval.

Sherlock notices Victor’s gaze and considers his drink for a moment, his lip curled in distaste. For a moment, Victor thinks he’ll refuse. Then, in a movement so swift that Victor would have missed it had he blinked, Sherlock knocks back the entirety of the scotch in one swallow and sets the glass aside.

“So,” he says, finally. “You’re alive. Was my presence truly that intolerable for you to feel the need to fake your own death? Or were you simply _bored?”_

“Don’t be rude,” Victor says mildly. He feels his face darken. “It wasn’t my idea to leave you.”

“You _died_ ,” Sherlock says stiffly. “In - I was there!”

_ In my arms _ is what he doesn’t say, and Victor can hardly blame him.

“That part was real enough,” he says softly. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, exposing the jagged scar at the base of his neck, the only mark that remains of the piece of glass that nearly killed him. “I died before the ambulance arrived; you’re right. But they were able to resuscitate me on the ride to the hospital.”

“That’s not what they told me,” Sherlock says faintly, unnecessarily. His words would have been ridiculous in any other situation. 

“What _did_ they tell you?” Victor asks, honestly curious, and winces at Sherlock’s flinch. 

“That you died,” he says shortly, but his eyes slide away from Victor’s face and cloud over as he remembers the events he’s not telling Victor. 

Victor finally sits down. The furniture is huddled together in the spacious room, settled on an elaborate carpet in the center; an island on a sea of mahogany floorboards. They are mere inches from one another. 

“I was supposed to complete a job abroad for your brother around Christmas four years ago.” Victor trails a finger through the condensation on the outside of his glass. “It was classified. Deep undercover. Only problem is, Mycroft never said just _how_ undercover I was supposed to go.”

Sherlock blinks, apparently taken aback. He runs a hand through his hair and looks away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Finally, he meets Victor’s eyes again.

“Mycroft... staged that whole accident,” Sherlock says in horrified realisation. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck and shakes his head. “God. And here I thought he was done surprising me.”

“Thought you appreciated people who could surprise you.”

“Not like this,” Sherlock says sharply. Victor nods, conceding his point.

“To give Mycroft some credit, no, he didn’t stage the car accident,” Victor tells him. “He... simply took advantage of an unexpected opportunity. He had intended to stage my death--without my knowledge, I should add. The car crash was fortune. For him, at least.”

“And why exactly did he need you dead?”

"Because he needed me in order to accomplish a job, but he also couldn't risk it being tied back to him." Victor swallows, trying to gather his thoughts. “Do you remember, um... God, I guess it was about two years ago now. The coup in Bolivia.”

“The president was assassinated.”

“That was me.” Victor chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking. “I, um. I had to infiltrate his hierarchy in order to even get close enough to accomplish it. I became his right-hand man. I spent nearly a year in that capacity, and I used my time to earn his trust and pit his staff against one another. When I finally managed to do away with him, I fled, and both of our absences created a power vacuum. The government collapsed in on itself, and the fighting parties ripped what was left to shreds. It was... very effective.”

“And then my brother stepped in.”

“And established the provisional government, yes.”

Sherlock frowns.

“What does he want with Bolivia?”

Victor gives a short, sharp laugh.

“Hell if I know, Sherlock. I just did what he told me.”

“And in the time since?” Sherlock demands. “Your mission ended two years ago, Victor!”

“That one did. Only thing is, Mycroft’s found that it’s very useful having a dead man in his arsenal.” Victor lifts his eyes to Sherlock’s once again. “I am no one, Sherlock. I have no origins; I have no background. And I’m dead useful--forgive the pun. Mycroft doesn’t need just _any_ man, he needs the best. And that’s me.”

“And what does he have on you?” Sherlock leans forward, earnest. “What could he _possibly_ have on you, to make you stay away? To keep you in his employ, doing his very bidding?”

“Well, the pay’s not half bad,” Victor says with a weak smile, gesturing to the house at large.

“So if this hadn’t happened - if I had not been forced to die by Moriarty - would we be having this conversation right now?” When Victor doesn’t answer, Sherlock presses, “Would we _ever_ be having this conversation?”

Victor stands abruptly, his face shuttering. 

“You must be exhausted. Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

\----

Sherlock showers in a tile-lined and echoing bathroom--or, rather, he runs a bath and sits in the tub with his damaged ankle draped over the side and his healing arm resting on the edge until the water becomes chilled and his skin shrivels from being submerged for so long. He tries to focus on the task at hand and finds himself thinking of Victor instead\--of Victor's warmth and Victor's smell, and the fact that Victor isn't telling him everything.

He catches sight of himself in a mirror for the first time after and glares disapprovingly at his mangled hair. He then dresses in clothes he finds in the wardrobe of his borrowed bedroom--which turn out to fit him eerily well--and proceeds to inspect the rest of the house. 

Victor is nowhere in sight, probably having retreated to his study or the main room. Sherlock avoids both of those places but investigates every other room, from Victor’s bedroom to the kitchen to the vast and chilly wine cellar. There’s a mounted display next to every door - a state-of-the-art security system that monitors every corner of the house. The computers Sherlock comes across - and there are half a dozen on the ground floor alone - are so well encrypted that even he can’t hack into them. They are all Victor’s work, then.

Sherlock had pursued chemistry at university while Victor had chosen maths. And whereas Sherlock had then turned his attentions to the world around them, Victor turned to a world that was not so easily observed--the one that existed in cyberspace. He was a genius in the realm of mathematics and an expert when it came to technology, putting even Sherlock’s own self-taught skills to shame. It appears as though time had not dulled Victor’s expertise; if anything, he is even more astounding now than Sherlock remembers from four years ago. 

He gives up on his third attempt to break into Victor’s computer network and stands for a moment in the dark and silent kitchen, watching the warm glow that emanates from the open doorway of the study just down the hall. He moves toward it, an insect drawn inexplicably to the warmth, and pauses just inside.

Victor is reading by the light of a fire, settled deep in an armchair with an ankle crossed over his knee. In the dim, flickering light of the room his hair appears chestnut and his skin is golden. Sherlock can almost catch a glimmer of the man he remembers from university, tanned and toned from hours spent on the rugby pitch, the flesh of youth still lingering around his cheekbones. When he first came into this house, Sherlock had been taken so unawares that to look at Victor was almost painful. Now, as the shock of Victor’s resurrection thins and wears, Sherlock finds that he can’t look away.

Sherlock is gorgeous and knows it; Victor is handsome and doesn’t. His beauty comes from his commonness, and he would be described by most as conventionally attractive. He is tall, but not towering. His strong jaw has been slightly softened by the beard, and his normal hair colour is a particularly unassuming shade of brown. Under the coloured contacts, his eyes are blue. He is broad in the shoulders and solidly-built; sturdy and self-assured where Sherlock is all sharp angles and wild limbs. He has put on weight in their years apart, but it appears to be nearly all muscle.

Everything about Victor screams _average_ , and perhaps that’s what makes him noticeable. Or perhaps it’s his eyes--his _true_ eyes--which Sherlock finds are as striking as his mind.

“That ankle must be smarting,” Victor says without looking up. He takes a long swallow from his glass and then adds, “Come and sit.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“I thought you’d quit,” he says softly, and hates how pitiful it sounds.

“It’s just water.” Victor holds out the glass for Sherlock’s inspection; Sherlock stays glued to the wall. Victor sets the glass down and goes on. “I like the look of it, there on the table. I like the feel of it in my hand. It wasn’t just about the drink, Sherlock. It was also about the illusion I created along with it. I always did enjoy a good mask.”

Sherlock peels himself from the wall then and comes to sit on the sofa across from Victor’s chair. A low table separates them, and Victor has the contents of a file spread across it. Sherlock catches the glimpse of a familiar face amid the pile and tugs a photograph out from under a piece of paper. It’s a newspaper clipping, dated some months ago.

_ “Hatman and Robin,”  _ Sherlock mutters with derision. He puts the photograph back. His eyes then travel over the rest of the papers, and he comes to realize that they all pertain to him. There are printouts from John’s blog, surveillance photographs, more newspaper clippings... Every movement he’s made in the past four years is spread out there on the table. The papers are worn at the top edges; some of them are creased. Victor’s thumbed through this file a multitude of times over the past few days.

“I wasn’t allowed to know anything about you,” Victor says quietly. “Nor about anyone else I had associated with in my... previous life. It was assumed that, should I ever be caught, at least I wouldn’t be able to divulge current--and useful--information. But then, three days ago, a messenger appeared at my door with this file and a note from Mycroft saying that you would be joining me very soon. Needless to say, I’ve had a lot to catch up on.”

Victor sets his book aside, looking grave, and Sherlock knows what is coming next. 

“I am so sorry -”

“Don’t,” Sherlock says sharply. Victor shakes his head.

“I am _so sorry_ ,” he presses, “that this happened to you. But we will fix this, Sherlock, do you hear me? And I will do everything within my power to help you.”

Sherlock nods tightly and finds he can’t formulate a response.

“What is it you do?” he asks instead, hoping desperately to steer the conversation back into territory that he can handle. Victor shifts for a moment, thinking, as though considering whether or not to answer truthfully. 

“There’s a town not far from here,” he says at last. “I teach.”

“You _what?_ ” Sherlock does not bother to hide his incredulity. Victor shrugs.

“Your brother’s money helped me get established, but it wasn’t going to last forever. I needed something to support myself in-between missions,” Victor explains. “I’m thankful that, of all the places in the world Mycroft could have dropped me, it was here. My French is excellent; most days, I can pass as a native. And, when Mycroft needs me for a job, it’s not too difficult to get away from my work for a time.”

Sherlock lets out a huff of laughter, disbelieving and sad all at once.

“All these years, I believed you were somewhere I couldn’t reach. Turns out, you were practically on my doorstep.” Sherlock snorts. “You’re too forgiving of Mycroft.”

Victor meets Sherlock’s eyes then; fixes him with a penetrating gaze.

“Mycroft is just doing what is necessary in order to protect the interests of the country. I loathe the situation, of course I do, but not your brother.” 

Sherlock feels his jaw tighten. He drops his eyes to the file on the table and begins to sift through the papers again, though he already knows all of the information he’s going to find. 

“I see that you worked a case for Sebastian Wilkes not too far back,” Victor comments as Sherlock comes across a printout of the case John had called _The Blind Banker_. “How’s he doing?”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Victor,” Sherlock says without looking up. “I chose you in the end, didn’t I?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Victor says, and he gives a quick smile. Sherlock feels his heart stumble in his chest at the sight. “I only mean... how’ve you been, Sherlock?”

“Fine.”

“Truly?”

Sherlock stares at him a moment, for how is he expected to answer that? How is he supposed to put into words the crushing grief, the empty days, the world that turned on despite Victor’s death? And so he gives a slow nod, for lack of any other response.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve been... fine.”

Victor gives a quick nod and sits back in his seat, obviously satisfied.

“Of course you have,” he says fondly. “Look at you. Consulting detective. You’ve made quite a life for yourself. Quite a name, as well.”

Sherlock nods absently.

“How’s your mother?”

“Fine,” Sherlock responds shortly. “She’s still alive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I was just wondering how she was doing,” Victor says gently. “She was always kind to me.”

Sherlock nods, because his mother had doted on Victor almost as much as she did her two sons. The memory brings a small smile, unbidden, to his face.

“On the good days, you’re all she talks about,” he says finally, and Victor lifts an eyebrow in surprise. “She doesn’t understand why I don’t bring you around anymore. She berates Mycroft; says he’s working you too hard.”

The smile slips from Sherlock’s face, and Victor asks, gently, “And on the bad days?”

“On the bad days, she asks for Father,” Sherlock says quietly. “On the bad days, she doesn’t remember me at all. I don’t visit often. It upsets her.”

“She’s your mother,” Victor says reproachfully. Sherlock shoots him a glare.

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” he snaps. It’s meant to wound and, from the expression on Victor’s face, it does. Victor, who has not even a trace memory of his own mother, always envied Sherlock his. Sherlock, who has watched his own mother deteriorate before his eyes, always envied Victor his ignorance.

“My God,” Victor mutters, dropping his gaze to his glass. “It’s as though no time has passed, isn’t it? I think the last fight we had was about your mother.”

He takes a long drink from his glass.

“Then again,” he adds, finally raising raw eyes to Sherlock’s, “sometimes it feels like it’s been an eternity. God, I’ve missed you.”

There are no words for how much Sherlock missed him in return; no words to describe the day his world ended. He remains quiet and hopes that Victor will not misinterpret his silence. If this is truly still Victor - _his_ Victor - then he won’t.

Victor stares at him a moment and then nods, once, in understanding. 

“Whatever happened to my dog?” Victor asks after a moment, moving the conversation onto safer territory.

“Did no one - no, I suppose Mycroft wouldn’t have seen the point,” Sherlock says darkly, answering his own question before it’s fully asked. “Lestrade... Lestrade took him in.”

“I don’t suppose -”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head, surprised at the hole that digs its way into the pit of his stomach.. “No, he died last year.”

“Ah. Well.” Victor rubs the back of his neck. “That was kind of Greg.”

“Too kind.”

“Did you ever expect anything less from that man?”

“No. He’s almost as foolish as you.” Sherlock cocks his head, considering Victor. “This mission is going to be dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“You could die.”

“I already have.” Victor hesitates a moment. “You might never be able to return to England.”

“But they will be safe.”

“Do you have a plan?” Victor asks. 

Sherlock gives a derisive snort, realising that he hadn’t afforded Moriarty even the slightest thought since he first stepped foot into this house. This illusion. 

“Not much of one,” he admits. “I’ve been... a bit preoccupied, needless to say. Not that it would matter if I did - it would still need to be abandoned now that you’ve entered the equation. I hadn’t considered the possibility that I wouldn’t be working alone.”

Sherlock fetches his file on Sebastian Moran and lays it out on the table, on top of the folder that holds the contents of his life. Most of the information they have about Moran is second- and third-hand. They know he exists almost exclusively because of what happens around him. He’s anywhere between thirty and fifty, a mercenary and a sniper, responsible for half a dozen civil wars around the world and a handful of assassinations. 

“He seems pretty good as far as hired guns go,” Victor admits as he looks through the file, which is high praise coming from him, “but I can’t imagine what Moriarty would have been thinking, making him second-in-command.”

“What do you mean?”

Victor shrugs. 

“He doesn’t seem like the type, that’s all. He prefers to do his work quietly, behind-the-scenes, out in the field. He’s not one for sitting behind a desk and overseeing it all; planning it out. He’d rather be out there doing the work. He has no time for bureaucracy... such as it is.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“Look at it this way.” Victor takes off his reading glasses and fixes Sherlock with a grim look. “I’d much rather be here doing this work than cooped up in London doing Mycroft’s.”

And before Sherlock has a chance to turn that thought around in his mind, Victor has pocketed his reading glasses and starts to gather together the loose pages of the file.

“Where you going?” Sherlock demands.

Victor huffs a laugh. 

“Bed, kid, where d’you think?”

The ancient nickname slips out automatically. Victor doesn’t even seem to realize he’s said it. 

“We aren’t finished,” Sherlock protests.

“The work will still be here in a few hours,” Victor points out. “We’re going to be cooling our heels here anyway for a few weeks, at least until those injuries of yours become manageable. So I suggest you do the same and get some rest. You’ve been through a hell of an ordeal.”

Sherlock grunts to acknowledge that he’s heard, but he doesn’t follow Victor from the room.   



	5. Chapter 5

The truth of the matter is, Victor can’t stand dogs.

It was only by circumstance that he came to own one back when he was eighteen, a bull terrier pup a fellow student had sneaked into their shared rooms during Victor’s first year at Cambridge and then subsequently abandoned when he abruptly left university not three months later.

Victor may not like dogs, but he is not an unnecessarily cruel man, either. It was only proper that he keep the pup when no one else would take him into their homes.

And they had got along most days, him and Jasper, as well as two beings forced into such circumstances could. Jasper never wanted for attention, nor care, and Victor, well--it’s Jasper he has to thank for bringing Sherlock Holmes stumbling across his path one crisp autumn afternoon in his second year at university. Because, really, if the dog hadn’t latched onto Sherlock’s ankle that day in a fit of irritation, Victor doubts they would ever have met.

He’d have gone through life half-aware had it not been for that dog. And though Victor hasn’t thought about Jasper in months, tonight his mind keeps straying to the gentle beast--probably because, for the first time in years, he and Sherlock are under the same roof. In fact, Sherlock is pacing in the guest room that is just down the hall from Victor’s own. 

Victor had come to this country with nothing--not even the clothes on his back, having woken up in a French hospital dressed in one of their gowns and with scarcely an idea of what had happened to him. He had shattered both of his legs in the car accident in addition to nearly bleeding out from the wound in his neck, and his recovery had been agonizing and lengthy. It had been made all the worse by the fact that Mycroft Holmes had strictly forbidden any ties to his former life. Before this week, Victor had not possessed even a single photograph of Sherlock. 

Now, they are three rooms away from one another.

Victor pulls out his mobile and checks the time - just after midnight. He can’t remember the last time he slept properly. Perhaps a week ago. Certainly not since he got the news from Mycroft that Sherlock would be joining him here. 

He turns fully onto his stomach and buries his face in his pillow in an effort to block out the sounds of night. Sleep is still elusive, however, and Victor thumps the mattress in frustration. 

How in hell can Mycroft think that this is a good idea, bringing them together again? Victor had been removed from Sherlock’s life for a reason all those years ago, and Mycroft had gone to great lengths in order to accomplish that. To be reunited with him now seems like nothing short of folly, even though Victor has ached for this day; has imagined it a thousand times despite knowing that it would probably never happen.  

And yet, it has. Which can only mean one thing: the threat to Sherlock’s life right now is unprecedented. Victor is the last in Mycroft’s near-endless line of resources; the final hope when things go wrong. To use Victor now, after all the trouble it was to kill him and keep him dead... Well, even Victor is uneasy about that. He can only imagine what they’re going to be going up against. 

_ Moran _ .

Moriarty is a name that Victor’s well familiar with, but they aren’t dealing with him anymore. They’re dealing with his more grounded second-in-command, and a rejuvenated criminal network that spans the globe. 

_ The benefits of working with Sherlock far outweigh the risks of reuniting you two _ , Mycroft’s note had read, but Victor is not nearly so confident. 

This is mad, this is foolish... and dammit if it isn’t everything he’s spent the past four years hoping for.

Sherlock is still pacing down the hall, the floorboards of his room creaking unevenly under his stunted gait. Victor swallows and tries to ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, but it persists anyway, because this isn’t truly a reunion. It’s a drink of water across the Sahara--brief and glorious, but temporary, and it will be over all too quickly.

The next time Victor looks at the clock, it is just past two and the house is quiet; cold. After that, he wakes with the dawn and to the sound of Sherlock rattling around in the kitchen downstairs. 

Victor gets out of bed and takes a scalding shower, so hot he can barely stand it, as though he’s trying to burn away the weight that sits in his stomach. He had never imagined that their reunion would be quite this joyless.

Sherlock is still in the kitchen when Victor comes down a little later on, and they exchange nods in silent greeting. Sherlock’s mussed hair and the bags under his eyes betray the fact that he hadn’t slept well, and so Victor forgoes asking that particular, expected question. Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate the concern, anyway.

They breakfast together. Sherlock opts for a simple meal of toast and tea; Victor selects eggs and coffee. They sit at a small, square table meant for four, and when Victor takes a seat Sherlock chooses the one opposite him. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does, because there was a time when Sherlock would sit right next to him at a similar table, their legs tangling together while they breakfasted. 

But that was a lifetime ago and a country away from here and now. Victor can’t afford to imagine that things will return to the way they were. They can’t risk it, not when there is so much at stake. 

Victor finds it’s hard to think of death and terror, though, when he’s sitting in a warm and well-lit kitchen, a mug of coffee in hand and Sherlock across the way. 

Sherlock’s file has never been very far from his side, and Victor opens it again this morning, leafing through the papers while he eats. He wants to know, wants to _experience_ , every moment of the past four years, as though he lived them at Sherlock’s side. Instead, he has to settle for this file, and for what Sherlock deigns to tell him.

“Greg seems to have done well for himself,” Victor eventually ventures between bites. 

Sherlock’s eyes flick to him, and he grunts noncommittally. 

“How’s Angelo?”

“He’s out of prison,” Sherlock says. “He opened the restaurant up again.”

“Good for him. And Martha’s well, I take it?”

“She’s our landlady.” Sherlock looks up from his food then, fixing Victor with a confused stare. “Everyone thinks we’re a couple.”

“You and John?”

There’s not much of Sherlock’s flatmate in the file - or rather, there’s not much that pertains specifically to him. Most of the file, however, is actually made up of his blog posts. Victor gleans a little about the man from what he writes, but it isn’t much. Certainly not enough to satisfy his curiosity.

“Yes.”

Victor shrugs. 

“They knew about the two of us. They probably just assumed that you were starting to move on.”

“Idiots,” Sherlock mutters darkly to his plate. He takes an angry bite of toast. “Why would I want to move on? And with _John_ , of all people?”

“It’s what people do,” Victor says softly, though he’s one to talk. While he’s had a handful of sexual partners over the past four years--most business-related, some not--he’s had nothing that could even come close to being called a relationship. Partly this was because it was simply inadvisable, given his line of work. Most of it, though, was because he couldn’t contemplate having anyone else, not after Sherlock.

“I’m not people.” Sherlock gives Victor an abrupt, sharp glance - almost accusatory. “How can they think there would ever be anyone else but you?”

Victor stares at him a moment, dumbfounded, and then finally says, “Finish your food, Sherlock, it’ll get cold.”

The pass the rest of the meal in silence. 

\----

Sherlock’s days are long and empty, and he starts taking long walks around the expanse of the property in an effort to clear his mind and start to build strength up in his ankle once again. And, on certain days, he does it to escape Victor’s presence. 

He cannot stand this waiting game, made all the worse by the painful puzzle that is this strange house and this not-dead man. There was a time, too long ago, when Victor had been endlessly fascinating. Sherlock could have taken a lifetime to try to understand him, and still it wouldn’t have been enough.

Victor is still brilliant, and still captivating, but not in a way that Sherlock can stand any longer. His presence is as painful as it is welcome, and Sherlock can’t deduce the answers he’s sure Victor is keeping from him. Victor maintains that Mycroft is the reason he could not return to England, and it’s likely that is true. Mycroft’s power and resources are vast, and though Sherlock hates to admit it, Mycroft is far more intelligent than he. 

But a small, irrational corner of Sherlock’s mind says that there is no force on this Earth that could have kept Victor away from him. He has no evidence, no data, no information to base it on. It is simply a feeling, and a biased one at that. 

He cannot operate solely on speculation, though, let alone survive on it. He has to put these doubts aside, he _must,_ for they are going to be depending on one another for a very long time. 

Besides that, Sherlock has never been one to dwell on _what if_ s and he has never had the patience for people who spend their time agonizing over things past. There are events that cannot be changed, and it does no good to waste one’s time dwelling on them. 

What should it matter why Victor stayed away, so long as they are together now?

Sherlock focuses on this, and tries to tell himself that it doesn’t hurt that Victor is obviously lying to him. 

He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t hurt that Victor never came back. 

\----

Sherlock wakes in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and with his heart in his throat while his stomach is somewhere near the vicinity of his feet. It’s a repeat of the first night at Molly’s flat, and when he next becomes aware of himself he’s retching over the bathroom sink, the room spinning around him as he desperately tries to regain control of himself.

And then there are cool hands on his forehead and an arm around his shoulders. It’s an anchor that Sherlock latches onto, scrabbling for purchase in the middle of a storm. Victor supports him, holds him upright, says nothing while Sherlock retches and curses in-between heaves. 

At some muddled moment Sherlock decides he’s going to sit on the floor of the bathroom. It seems a much better alternative, for some reason, than returning to his bed. And Victor joins him, helps him down so he doesn’t jostle his ankle, sits with him and presses his head between his knees.

“Breathe,” Victor says at one point, barely more than a murmur, his palm warm on the back of Sherlock’s neck and his beard scraping Sherlock’s ear as he leans close. 

_ Breathe _ .

 

When Sherlock wakes again, hours later, he is back in his bed and Victor is nowhere to be seen.

\----

There are moments when Sherlock wonders, in the vast stretches of time he has to himself, if this whole situation is the universe’s way of playing an elaborate, cruel trick on him. His death has come with a price, and that price is Victor. Someone he has hoped for, dreamed of, _agonized_ over, but now that they are together again it is almost too painful to bear. 

_ Now you know how John feels _ . 

No. Sherlock dismisses the thought after the barest amount of consideration, and only partly because fate is an absurd concept. The two situations simply can’t compare. John only lost a friend. It must hurt--it _has_ to, because Sherlock can’t bear the thought that he is alone in his agony over leaving John behind--but it is nothing compared to having one’s world ripped away. It is nothing compared to losing Victor. John will move on. John will heal.

Sherlock never could. And now that Victor is back and his world should have righted itself, he finds himself more lost than ever. 

It is endlessly baffling. 

It is endlessly painful.

Victor wakes one morning to the sound of Sherlock shooting holes in the walls of his study. 

“Never liked that wallpaper, anyway,” is all Victor says when Sherlock finally puts the gun down. He pulls his dressing gown tighter around himself and folds his arms across his chest. “There’s a makeshift shooting range in the shed out back, you know, in case you ever wanted to try that out instead. Breakfast?”

He leaves the room just as abruptly--and just as calmly--as he had appeared. Sherlock turns and slams the palm of his hand against the wall in frustration, and tries to tell himself that it doesn’t hurt, _it doesn’t hurt_ , that none of this makes sense.

\----

Some nights later they are sitting by the fire in Victor’s study, and it hasn’t occurred to Sherlock until now how absurd it is that Victor lights one near every night. They are nearing mid-summer here on the Continent; there shouldn’t be any need for a fire. The nights are cool, but not overly so.

“It’s comforting,” Victor says with a shrug when Sherlock brings it up. “I like the sound of it. And the light. More?”

He holds up a half-empty wine bottle. He hasn’t touched a drop of it himself; this has all been Sherlock’s doing. 

Sherlock nods, because once again he has woken up in the middle of a free-fall and he cannot even contemplate returning to sleep tonight - or ever, if he had his choice. 

“This is the fourth time,” Sherlock says dully. The third had happened some afternoons ago while Sherlock had been leafing through a book in Victor’s study. Victor nods to himself.

“The same thing happened to me.”

The fire crackles, as though on cue. Sherlock leans forward, oblivious of the heat that flares along the side of his face, intrigued in spite of himself. 

“It’s not merely a flashback, Sherlock, is it?” Victor goes on. “And it’s not a dream, not always, because sometimes it doesn’t even happen when you’re asleep. For whatever reason, at any time of day, you start reliving the event. And you can’t stop it.”

Now Victor leans in, resting his forearms on his thighs. His Saint Christopher medal slips out of the collar of his shirt, and the gold chain it hangs from glints in the firelight. Victor tucks it away absently. He’s had it for as long as Sherlock has known him, and the metal pendant is tarnished from the number of times over the years that Victor has worried it between the pads of his fingers. Sherlock finds it curious that, out of everything, this is the one thing that Victor has held on to from his old life. From the life he’s supposed to have buried and left behind.

Victor turns his face to the fire; Sherlock continues to watch him. 

“There’s a reason I don’t have a car,” Victor says at last, almost bitterly. “I used to not be able to ride in one, it was so bad. Makes things a bit difficult when you’re trying to get in the good graces of a country’s president, that I _can_ tell you.”

“I don’t drive anymore,” Sherlock says softly, because he had been the one behind the wheel on that awful day. “Not unless it’s strictly necessary.”

The corner of Victor’s mouth tugs downward in sympathy. 

“I got better,” he says after a moment. “I can hear a whistle without thinking it’s a siren. I can hear an engine run without reliving the crash. It’s not much, but it’s something. Things will get better for you, too. It’ll just take some time.”

“I fall,” Sherlock admits. “Every time I close my eyes.”

“You realise that you had no choice, right?” Victor says vehemently. “Your friends would have died if you hadn’t fallen. You made the best you could out of an awful situation. _None_ of this was your fault.”

“You forget,” Sherlock says, “that I was the one who engaged Moriarty in the first place.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Victor sighs. “He would have come for you anyway.”

The heat from the fire is bordering on uncomfortable, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to draw away. Every time Victor sighs, he feels it upon his face. Every time Victor makes a fist, Sherlock imagines he can just reach out and touch his hand.

A thin line of perspiration has broken out across Victor’s forehead, and Sherlock feels sweat beading on the back of his own neck. The fire is baking them both, but they don’t pull back. Forearms on thighs, heads bent low, they huddle together in the midst of a shifting world.

“Tell me about John,” Victor says suddenly.

“John?” Sherlock turns the abrupt segue over in his mind for a moment before wondering, “Why?”

“Curiosity. You don’t willingly take the company of too many people,” Victor says in response, but Sherlock knows he is lying. This time, though, Sherlock knows why. Victor is trying to distract him. 

“He’s an army doctor, and he’s been to war. He killed for me the first day we met.” Sherlock looks down at the drink in his hands; traces his finger around the rim. “He... once said I was his best friend.”

“Sounds as though we’ve got a bit in common,” Victor comments.

Sherlock nods absently.

“I suppose, in many ways,” he says slowly, “John reminded-- _reminds_ \--me of you.”

And here, finally, is the truth Sherlock had never before wanted to admit, not even to himself. John is all of the things about Victor Sherlock never knew he had missed, not until the day John told Mycroft to piss off and then later put a bullet through the chest of a man he didn’t even know, all because Sherlock had been threatened. And though John has turned out to be extraordinary - and useful - in his own right, for those initial few weeks of their living together Sherlock would listen to John rattling around the flat and pretend it was Victor. And for those initial few weeks, the perpetual grip around his chest had loosened, and he could breathe properly for the first time in four years. 

“I don’t see -”

Victor stops abruptly and is out of his chair like a shot. He’s halfway across the room before Sherlock can push himself to his feet.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks sharply.

Victor’s attention has been drawn by one of the computer displays on the wall.

“Someone’s tripped the alarm on the south side of the house,” he says quietly. He punches at a few buttons, eyes skimming the readouts.

“What does that mean?”

Victor’s already moved over to his desk, where he pulls out a gun and slips it into his belt. 

“It means that they’ve got within five meters of this house. Kitchen, now. The cupboard just inside the door has a false back. Push it through. There’s a passageway that runs behind it. It’ll take you down into a safe room just behind the wine cellar.”

“I’m not hiding,” Sherlock protests indignantly, and Victor whirls on him, suddenly furious.

“You’ve done nothing _but_ hide since you threw yourself off that building,” he snaps in irritation. _“Go._ You’re no use to me dead, nor to your friends.”

He spins on his heel and leaves the room, snapping the lights off in his wake. Once he’s sure Victor has gone, Sherlock steals upstairs.

Victor’s bedroom looks out onto the south end of the property, and Sherlock knows - deduces, rather, from years spent in the other man’s company - where he keeps another gun. 

Sherlock ignores the protesting throb in his ankle as he drops to the floor and slides under Victor’s bed. It takes him less than ten seconds to figure out how to trigger the false bottom, and when he removes it he finds a gun stashed inside a small compartment. He replaces the false bottom of the bed and crawls out from under it, the handgun clutched in his left hand. It’s not his dominant hand and he hasn’t fired a gun in months, but it will work in a pinch. Victor had left a window open in hopes of coaxing a breeze out of the otherwise oppressive day and that is where Sherlock takes up a position, finger on the trigger as he scans the impenetrable darkness.

He hears nothing but the light rain; sees nothing but the unending night. 

And then a door slams. Victor is downstairs, cursing, and for a wild moment Sherlock fears he’s been injured. But then it quickly becomes apparent that his words are said in fury rather than in pain.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he snaps when Sherlock limps back into the main room, gun still in hand.

“Your bed,” Sherlock replies, nonplussed. He sets the gun down on a low table. Victor turns away, one hand on his hip and the other scrubbing furiously through his damp hair. “What happened?”

“It was just a bloody deer,” Victor snarls, clearly irritated and jittery with lingering adrenaline. Sherlock stares at him.

“Your state-of-the-art security system,” he says slowly, “was fooled by a _deer?”_

Victor shrugs in annoyance, a deep crease forming between his brows.

“Obviously, there are some kinks in the programming I haven’t worked out yet.”

They stare at one another for a beat - and then, simultaneously, they break into laughter. Victor peels off his shirt while Sherlock tries to stifle the worst of his chuckles and tosses the rain-soaked garment over the back of a chair before the fire. Sherlock glances at him and, in an instant, the laughter dies in his throat. 

Victor’s solid torso is a map of jagged lines and knotted flesh - scar tissue from wounds both ancient and new. There’s one on his shoulder that Sherlock remembers from a particularly gruesome rugby match years ago, in addition to the white line at the base of his neck. But now there are also the remnants of a bullet wound between his ribs and an old gash from a knife that slashes across his pectoral. There’s also a thick, angry line across his stomach, as red and inflamed as though it had been made only yesterday. Another scar skirts Victor’s right hip and disappears beneath the waistline of his trousers.

“Don’t worry, they’re not as bad as they look,” Victor says, giving a weak smile when he notices Sherlock’s stare. 

Sherlock closes the distance between them in two quick strides and brings his fingertips to rest over the bullet wound. A muscle leaps under his touch, the smallest of shudders, but Victor doesn’t move. 

“Bullet,” Sherlock murmurs as he traces the injury. He moves his fingers to the scar on Victor’s chest. “Knife. What about this one?”

Victor remains perfectly still as Sherlock drops his hand to the ragged flesh that slices Victor’s stomach nearly in two.

“Meat cleaver in Mexico,” Victor says. Sherlock nods and once again finds himself drawn to the bullet wound. 

“This shot should have killed you.”

“Remind me to lodge a formal complaint.” Victor breathes for a moment, his chest rising and falling under Sherlock’s palm, and then he finally murmurs, “Sherlock.”

He looks up. Victor’s eyes are visibly dark, even as the light from the fire glints off them. Sherlock slides his palm up, achingly slow, pushing his fingers through the hair on Victor’s chest--which has also been dyed blond--before bringing his hand to rest on the side of Victor’s neck. Sherlock is transfixed, glued to the spot by Victor’s gaze, Victor’s smell, Victor’s _heat_. 

“Your face...” Sherlock murmurs before trailing off. This is the closest they’ve come in four years, and Sherlock can finally see what his mind was trying to tell him his first night on the premises. Several tiny, white scars cover Victor’s face around his nose; some even snake down into his beard and disappear. The lines are minute; invisible from any sort of distance. This close up, however, they are difficult to miss. 

“I broke several bones in my face in the crash,” Victor says softly. “They had to reconstruct part of my nose. Good thing, too. It’s one thing to change my hair colour. But anyone with even halfway-decent profiling technology would have been able to scan my face and match it to that of dead Victor Trevor. Now... I’m simply no one.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock croaks, and something flickers behind Victor’s eyes. Finally, he raises a hand to Sherlock’s face; cups his cheek and brushes a thumb across his lips. “Why did you stay away?”

The light behind Victor’s eyes fades and he shifts, as though to move away.  Sherlock holds him in place. 

“I can understand having to leave,” Sherlock goes on. “Mycroft’s... very good at getting what he wants. But why didn’t you come back?”

“I couldn’t,” Victor whispers. Sherlock’s lips thin.

“You, if I remember correctly, are also _extremely_ good at getting what you want.”

Victor curls a hand around the one that Sherlock has resting against his neck. He squeezes, once, and then pulls it away. 

“There are times,” he says quietly, “when what needs to be done takes precedence over what I want.”

Sherlock huffs in frustration. 

“Right, let’s try this, then. Mycroft went through a lot of trouble to kill you.”

“Indeed.” 

“So why would he throw all of that work away now by reuniting us?”

“That’s a question you’re better off asking him.” 

Victor still has a hand curled around Sherlock’s, though he’s holding it a good several inches away from his face. They notice this nearly at the same time, and pull away from one another. 

“We can’t get back into this,” Sherlock says quietly, voicing the thought he’s known since the moment he first set eyes on Victor in this house. They cannot afford to get mired in the past. There is too much at stake, and six lives that ride on Sherlock’s back. Distractions will only lead to disaster. 

“I wasn’t expecting that we would,” Victor says, and Sherlock knows he means it. “Don’t mistake my intentions, Sherlock. I only want to help. But keep in mind that you’ve spent four years thinking me dead, while I’ve always known you were still out there. I... still care for you. This mission isn’t just another job for me.”

“It should be,” Sherlock says, suddenly harsh and inexplicably angry. An unexpected wave of fury floods through him, and he doesn’t know where it’s come from. “Damn it, Victor, it _has_ to be. Mycroft chose you because you are the best. Don’t you dare let your emotions--let _sentiment_ \--cloud your judgment. You’ll get us killed, and maybe even John and Lestrade, too. I won’t have my death be for nothing!”

Sherlock turns on his heel and leaves the room before Victor can say anything. The expression on Victor’s face--shock with a tinge of hurt--tells him enough. 

_ This doesn’t hurt.  _

\----

The next afternoon, Sherlock’s feet take him to a part of this forest he’s never seen before. It’s a good hour out of his way on an unfamiliar path, and though he knows that he can find his way back to the house he’s not entirely sure that he wants to. He has not spoken to Victor since his outburst last night, mostly because Victor has been giving him a wide berth and made himself scarce for most of the day. Even if he had been around, though, Sherlock isn’t sure what he’d say. He feels cold and hollow, and the lie he’s been telling himself for nearly two weeks-- _this doesn’t hurt_ \--isn’t as effective anymore.

Sherlock perches on the rotting stump of a tree to catch his breath. He turns his face to the sky, what little of it he can see through the tree leaves. The forest’s rich canopy stretches out above his head, as far as he can see, and when he closes his eyes he can hear the call of the birds and the rustle of squirrels as they leap from branch to branch. There’s an entire ecosystem up there, hundreds of feet above his head. There’s an entire world that exists suspended in midair, and creatures who live out their lives without ever stepping on the ground. 

It’s a strange--and brutal--reminder that the fate of a world rests on his shoulders, and it isn’t theirs. 

The world-in-the-trees will persist, regardless of whether Sherlock’s mission succeeds or fails. It doesn’t care that Victor’s alive; it isn’t bothered by the fact that he died. For that matter, most of the world on the ground doesn’t particularly care, either.

Sherlock envies their world--and his own--their ignorance. 

“You look sad.”

Sherlock starts and looks around. He hadn’t even heard Victor approach, and doesn’t bother asking how Victor found him.

“What’s wrong?” Victor takes a seat next to him on the stump. Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Nothing.”

Victor nudges him gently with his knee. 

“That might work on your friends, but it doesn’t on me. I’ve known you too long.” Victor takes a deep, hesitant breath. “Look, about yesterday -”

“Don’t,” Sherlock snaps. “You think too highly of yourself, Victor, this isn’t about yesterday.”

Except it is, of course it is. It’s about yesterday and the past week and the four years they’ve been apart. Victor is quiet for a moment.

“Tell me what’s wrong, then,” he says softly. “You look like you’ve taken the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Sherlock snorts.

“I have.”

“No, you haven’t,” Victor counters readily. _“Half_ the weight, maybe. Other half’s on me. Or, at least, it should be. That’s what I’m here for. So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock repeats.

“All right,” Victor says. “Then how I about I _tell_ you what’s wrong. You weren’t angry at me last night, you were angry at yourself. That whole bit about letting sentiment cloud your judgment, that’s happening to you. And you’re worried this mission will fail because you’ve had a shock and you don’t know how to handle it. You don’t want your death to be for nothing... as you perceive mine to be. How’d I do?”

Sherlock is starting to tremble, and he balls his hand in a fist in an effort to stem the tremors.

“You forgot one thing,” he manages at last, hating how his voice skitters up the scale. “You... aren’t the only one who didn’t move on.”

They are quiet for a while after that, the silence broken only by the breeze that sweeps through the trees and the animals that call and beckon to one another as night closes in.

“That’s not all of it, I don’t think,” Victor prods gently. And he’s right, of course he is. Sherlock has very rarely ever been able to slip anything past him. 

“Not all,” Sherlock agrees dully. “I was forced off the top of a building by a dead man, a dead man whose snipers would have killed the only people I had left in the world. I’m a fraud who’s not a fraud, and you’re alive, and there are creatures that live in the air instead of on the ground, and none of that makes one bit of sense. The world’s gone mad, only it seems to have left me behind because I haven’t got a clue what’s going on anymore. It’s _all wrong.”_

Sherlock presses the back of his hand to his nose.

“And you got old,” he says quietly, his voice thick. He half-turns to look at Victor in the dying light of the day, taking in the silver at his temples and the lines at the corners of his eyes. “You got old without me. Who gave you permission to do that?”

Victor shifts, as though he’s about to reach for Sherlock but then thinks better of it. Sherlock clamps his eyes shut, shuddering with the effort it’s taking him to remain composed. He has to dig the fingers of his free hand into his knee in order to keep from reaching for Victor.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says at last in a low voice that’s full of sorrow. “I’m sorry, truly I am. I know nothing I can say will make this better for you. All I ask is that you trust me when I say that it was unavoidable.”

Sherlock gives a wet, disbelieving laugh, because trust has never been their issue, not even now. He swipes the heel of his hand under his left eye and swallows hard for several moments, trying to regain control of himself.

“I always trust you,” Sherlock says at last, distinctly grateful that his voice has returned to its normal register. “But that doesn’t mean I believe you.”


	6. Chapter 6

It takes almost three weeks for Sherlock’s injuries to become tolerable. He spends most of his endless days inside Victor’s vast home while he heals, on edge, aware of every creak of the floorboards and every whisper of wind. He knows he will not be found, he _knows_ that no one suspects that he’s alive, but still a sliver of doubt lingers in the back of his mind.

In the meantime, Victor returns to his job. 

“We won’t be doing ourselves any favours if we raise suspicions this early on,” he says when Sherlock insists that he simply abandon the work. “If I disappear off the face of the planet, someone’s going to wonder about it. No. I’ll part ways with them like normal; tell them I’ve taken up a position elsewhere. They won’t look for me then.”

Victor spends most of his evenings now bent over papers at his desk in the study, marking essays and preparing lessons, acting for all the world as though he’s not about drop it all for a dangerous mission. He has a perpetual smudge of ink on the side of his nose from the number of times he adjusts his glasses, and every once in a while, when the light is right and Victor’s expression is particularly contemplative, Sherlock catches a glimpse of the man he fell for back at university. It is jarring, and the image is usually gone in a heartbeat, replaced by this thirty-four-year-old he barely knows. 

But the Victor that he knew is still there, and Sherlock sees more and more of him every day. 

And, even though there are questions that remain unanswered, that alone starts to ease the ache.

\----

Sherlock sits on his bed after his morning shower, wrapping his ankle in a loose-fitting bandage. Tomorrow will mark precisely three weeks since his arrival at Victor’s house, and though he feels an occasional twinge of pain, he has largely recovered from his injuries. He can walk with minimal difficulty, and they will be able to remove the cast on his arm within the week.

He wraps his ankle and hopes that his stride will be stronger today; hopes that it will be longer and more sure. And in some deep, dark recess of his mind, he hopes that it won’t be, because then he can stay for a while longer in this house; for a while longer in this fantasy with Victor. For as frustrating as this whole baffling situation is, Sherlock knows that he would rather live even this life than a life without Victor. 

Sherlock mentally shakes himself. _No_. He must think of John, and of Lestrade, and of all the people he left behind--not the one who left him first. He has been unsuccessful in wringing any further answers from Victor and, with the time of their mission at hand, he must move on. There are more pressing matters to be dealing with, and six lives that ride on his back.

Downstairs, Victor is singing. 

Sherlock tips his head back until it is resting against the wall, closes his eyes, and listens. He remembers a time when he would wake up to that baritone singing soft, nonsense verses in his ear. He remembers Victor sitting at a desk, head bent low over his books, humming absently while he worked. Sherlock remembers even the tedious midnight church services, and the feel of Victor’s voice rumbling through his chest as they stood side-by-side, hands just barely not-touching as they rested on the back of the pew in front of them. 

_ No. Think of John. Think of Lestrade. _

_ This doesn’t hurt. _

And this time, that isn’t entirely a lie.

Sherlock wanders down to the kitchen, where Victor is bustling around. He moves between the kettle and his computer, checking on the tea and emailing in-between, singing to himself all the while. The tune is mournful and quick, the notes cresting and falling like waves at sea. 

“You haven’t changed,” Sherlock says softly, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. Victor glances up from his work, flashes a quick smile and returns to the kettle.

“Oh?”

“You. Singing.”

Victor pours two cups of tea; blows air on his finger where a spilled drop of scalding water burned him.

“Was I singing?”

“Yes.” Sherlock accepts his mug with a nod of thanks.

“What was it?”

_ “The minstrel boy to the war is gone...”  _ Sherlock sings quietly. Victor grins.

_ “In the ranks of death you will find him,”  _ he sings in return. And then his voice turns fond. “And you haven’t changed, either. My tone-deaf virtuoso. A genius on the violin, but utter crap when it comes to singing.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Victor brushes affectionate fingers along his jaw, and then turns away before Sherlock can react to the unexpected, intimate touch. 

“You’re up early; I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No,” Sherlock manages, still reeling from the phantom press of the fingers on his cheek. “It was just -”

He stops before he says _my ankle_ , but Victor has already guessed the reason for his sleeplessness. 

“I have painkillers upstairs. Do you want some?” he asks. “They should help.”

Sherlock shakes his head and takes a long drink from his tea.

Victor returns to his singing.

\----

Victor is asleep before the fire, a dog-eared book abandoned in his lap and his reading glasses still on his face. The small table next to his armchair is stacked with books, and a notebook half-filled with Victor’s illegible scrawl is sitting on the floor. Sherlock leaves him be at first and makes the cup of tea he had been seeking, but instead of going back upstairs he finds himself once again drawn to the study.

He puts the cup of tea down and places a hand on Victor’s shoulder, and that touch alone is enough to wake him. Victor doesn’t startle out of sleep, not usually, and right now he simply blinks up at Sherlock, his lips curling into a bemused smile once he realises where he is.

“You should know better,” Sherlock scolds lightly. “Reading by a fire always puts you to sleep.”

Victor gives a huff of laughter and covers Sherlock’s hand with his own. He gives it an affectionate squeeze and then pushes himself to his feet. 

“I suppose I’ve got into some bad habits, living on my own,” he murmurs in a sleep-roughened voice. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

Victor stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. 

“Well, I’m off, then. Thanks for waking me. My neck would’ve been a bitch in the morning had I stayed down here.” He claps Sherlock lightly on the shoulder. “Close the windows before you come up, yeah? G’night, kid.”

Sherlock nods and, as he watches Victor leave the room, tells himself again that it doesn’t hurt. 

And it almost doesn’t.

\----

A summer storm catches them by surprise late one afternoon, blowing in with gusts of wind that rattle the trees and bursts of water that tell them the worst is on its way. It’s a scramble to shut all the windows in the house before the main part of the front rolls in, and even so rainwater spatters the floor of the guest bedroom and has got into the kitchen.

“God, we haven’t had a storm like this in _ages,”_ Victor says in delight as the first bolt of lightning cracks through the air. The front of his t-shirt is soaked from his struggle to close a particularly difficult window in the main room. Sherlock’s answer is lost in a crash of thunder. 

They watch the storm roll in from the windows in the main room, and Victor grins when the spitting rain finally turns into a steady downpour. Sherlock knows why. They had been caught in a similar storm years ago over a long holiday, and what Victor had intended to be a two-day stay at his father’s cottage turned into nearly a week when bad flooding hit the area. With too much time on their hands and too few ways to fill it, they had been forced to come up with their own distractions.

It had turned into a very memorable week. 

Victor slings a companionable arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“Let’s hope the road doesn’t wash out this time around, yeah?” he says good-naturedly.

“It’d be a travesty,” Sherlock agrees dryly. Victor laughs and releases him.

They stand there for a time, shoulders pressed together, watching as the rest of the storm blows itself out. And it doesn’t hurt at all.

\----

Some days later, Victor aids Sherlock in removing the cast from his arm, though he doesn’t assist so much as he sits at Sherlock’s side and tries to keep him occupied while they wait for the plaster to soften.

“You’re going to have to keep it in here for at least an hour,” Victor says as he pushes on Sherlock’s arm into the bucket until it is completely submerged in the solution of water and vinegar. “Though it’ll probably end up being closer to two before we can unwrap it completely.”

“I know,” Sherlock says shortly. “Christ, you aren’t my nursemaid.”

“I am at the moment, and damn good thing it is, too,” Victor says. “Else you would have taken God-knows-what to that cast and hacked it off - and your arm right along with it, probably. Do you want a book to read?”

“No,” Sherlock says petulantly. 

“Do you want to talk about the mission?”

Sherlock fixes him with a sharp look.

“Do you want me to?”

Victor shrugs. 

“It’s not my place to ask.” He pulls his lips into what he hopes isn’t a bitter smile. “I’m used to taking orders from Holmeses, you remember. I don’t often question them.”

Sherlock considers him a moment. 

“We will be starting in Barcelona,” he says finally. “There are some arrangements I made prior to my fall that should be able to weather this latest change. I have a contact there who has some information that will get me - us - started.”

“And what do you owe them in return?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says with grim satisfaction. “They owe _me.”_

“You’ve been planning this for a while, then.”

Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Not planning. Merely... exploring all of my options.”

But he doesn’t elaborate, and they lapse into silence. Victor fetches some work that he’s been neglecting; Sherlock sits impatiently with his arm in the bucket, the fingers of his other hand tapping out a nonsense rhythm on his knee. Victor, after a time, gets up and paces over to the kitchen window. 

Medical science saved both of his legs all those years ago, and repaired them enough so that he has nearly the same range of motion he had in them prior to the accident. The price he pays for such a miracle, however, is pain. It is a constant ache that sits in the back of his mind most days, and he has grown used to it over the years; enough so that he can tolerate it, at least. But at certain times, and in certain weathers, the twin aches in his hips and the pinch in his knees grow to a throb, and he finds it difficult to focus on anything else but the pain.

He stands there for a moment, rocking back on his heels, stretching his sore legs. He’s been sitting for too long, and his legs are making their displeasure known. He’d go for a walk under normal circumstances in order to work out the lingering discomfort, but God only knows what Sherlock would do to his arm if left to his own devices. 

“You’re in pain,” Sherlock says, and he sounds surprised.

“The wound to my neck wasn’t the only one I sustained in the accident,” Victor says, turning from the window. “I made a goddamn mess of my legs, too. It’s not too bad, just uncomfortable now and again.”

“Your recovery was difficult, then,” Sherlock says, in the cautious manner that Victor has learned is him attempting to find information that he can’t deduce.

Victor snorts. 

“I had a shard of glass embedded in my neck, near-ruined legs, and I woke up in hospital hundreds of miles away from you.” And then, realising fully what he has just said, he adds, “Yes, it was difficult,” speaking quickly so his previous words don’t have time to sink in.

“Why the beard?”

“It seemed like a proper response to the situation,” Victor says wryly. “You know. Have your life ripped out from under you, grow a beard. Logical progression, don’t you think?”

That earns him a snort before Sherlock falls silent once more. Victor comes back over to the table and checks on Sherlock’s softening cast. More time has passed than he originally realised, and the plaster peels away easily. He sets to work removing it. Sherlock is quiet, but his silence is thick and hesitant. 

“Something’s on your mind,” Victor says, a statement rather than a question. It is met with silence at first.

A little while later, however, Sherlock takes a breath and says, “When I first came into this house...”

He trails off, but it doesn’t take Victor long to figure out where he might have been going with his unfinished question. He had been asking about the beard, which would have been one of three immediate surprises when he first came into this house. Victor’s resurrection has already been answered for him, or answered as much as Victor will allow. The third surprise, however...

“When you first came into this house,” Victor picks up for him, “I seemed very... nonchalant for a man who had just been reunited with his partner for the first time in four years. Very calm.”

“Yes.”

Victor snorts and shakes his head. 

“You forget, Sherlock, that I’ve had four years to resign myself to the idea that we would probably never see one another again. I had three days to prepare for meeting with you again. Christ, it was hard, of course it was. But I couldn’t... It was harder on _you_. You, who had not even the faintest idea what you were going to find here. I _had_ to be calm. For you.”

He finishes peeling away the plaster and grabs a towel. He begins drying off Sherlock’s newly-healed and atrophied arm and, as the silence lengthens, begins to regret his brusque words.

“I don’t ever want you to make the mistake of thinking that I never missed you, however,” Victor says at last, his voice pitched low. “I did. Terribly. Living without you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

He finally lifts his eyes to meet Sherlock’s unwavering gaze.

“I know you don’t believe me,” Victor goes on, just as soft, “but you do trust me. You said so yourself. You’ve always trusted me. So trust me when I say that I _couldn’t_ come back. Not then; perhaps not ever. It wasn’t my idea to leave you, but once it had been done I realised I couldn’t come back. And trust me also when I say that, while I may have survived that crash, I still _died_ that day. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I put you through.”

He finally releases Sherlock’s arm and Sherlock slowly gets to his feet. Victor follows, reaching for the bucket, but he is interrupted by Sherlock’s body crowding him.

Sherlock grips him in an abrupt one-armed hug, his good arm clamping down tight around Victor’s shoulders. His weaker hand first rests on Victor’s hip and then, tentatively, he slips the arm around Victor’s waist. 

Victor hesitates for less than a breath before he’s clutching Sherlock in return. _God,_ how he’s forgotten what it’s like to have this man in his arms, though he’s imagined it countless times. He digs his fingers into Sherlock’s jumper and buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and breathes, smelling spice and soap and sweat. 

“Don’t you _ever,”_ Sherlock hisses, his voice ragged, “fucking do it again.”

Victor swallows hard.

“I won’t,” he whispers, and the words are bitter in his mouth. But he holds Sherlock close nonetheless and tries to tell himself that it doesn’t hurt, _it doesn’t hurt_ , that this can’t be forever. 

\----

Later that afternoon, Sherlock procures a large map from Victor’s library and covers it with notes. He marks down locations, people, and companies that formed what was once Moriarty’s network, and is now Moran’s.

Their earlier discussion in the kitchen seems to have rejuvenated Sherlock, for he is more animated now than Victor has seen since the moment they were reunited. He works with a frenzied energy, as feverish as Victor remembers from before his death. His eyes are bright with excitement, and Victor recognises the expression. Sherlock has a new puzzle, one that he can now devote his entire attention to, and he is _delighted_.

“These are only the ones I’m aware of; the ones I managed to connect to Moriarty while he was still alive. The information is old, but it’s a start,” Sherlock says, pulling Victor from his thoughts. “His network is vast. It’s entirely likely that this doesn’t even scratch the surface.”

Victor spends the afternoon with Sherlock, familiarizing himself with the various notes. They won’t be able to carry something like this on them when they leave. They can’t have anything that will potentially identify who they are, or what they’re doing. It will all need to be stored mentally.

“We can’t go around killing all of Moriarty’s associates. Someone’s going to notice,” Victor muses to himself. He then thinks of Bolivia. “If Moran were to suffer an accident, it might create a power vacuum. The entire syndicate could crumble without us having to anything more than that.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock concedes. “But Moran is stationed somewhere in England, and if I step foot back on home soil I run a serious risk of discovery. No. We must dismantle the network piece by piece, starting from abroad. Moran’s only as strong as those who support him, remember.”

“His network has to span the globe.” Victor looks at the map spread out on the table before them. “Those assassins who took residence outside Baker Street were from at least four different countries. And look what you’ve got here - lawyers in Spain, drug cartels in Mexico, arms factories in the U.S.... is there anyone _not_ working for this guy?”

“Us,” Sherlock says absently, pen in his mouth, considering the map.

“We can’t kill all these people.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “But Moran is also only as strong as those who are _useful_ to him. What happens if those arms factories  don’t exist?”

Victor shrugs. “He loses influence over the weapons manufacturing in that country.”

“Not only the manufacturing.”

Victor snaps his fingers. “But also the _distribution_ of those weapons. Who gets them, and who doesn’t.”

Sherlock taps a finger on the map, right over the eastern coast of the U.S. “We sabotage the manufacturing. Blow up the buildings if we have to. We can time it so that no one is inside at the time, and Moran loses a good portion of his network.”

“So we target _what_ makes each branch of the network useful to Moran, rather than the people.” Victor considers this for a moment. “It’s still going to look suspicious.”

“Not as suspicious as everyone in the syndicate dying,” Sherlock points out. “It will be more devastating, too. People can be replaced. Those factories took years to build. That’s not to say we’ll be able to avoid murder entirely, however.”

Victor snorts. “I doubt you’re going to have much of an issue with that.”

“Nor you.” Sherlock straightens and cracks his neck. “There’s another aspect to this that we need to consider.”

“Richard Brook.”

Sherlock’s eyes darken. “Yes. To the rest of the world, Moriarty never existed and Richard Brook is an... _actor_ I paid in order to supposedly stage the cases I solved. I need to bring Moriarty back in addition to taking down his network.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admits. “But there must, _somewhere_ , exist proof of James Moriarty. And I _need_ that, Victor. I can eradicate the network, but without proof of Moriarty, my life’s work is nothing. I can return home safely, but there seems little point in going if I have no work to return home _to_.”

“What will you do if you can’t find proof of Moriarty’s existence?”

Sherlock withdraws his gaze.

“It’s not a scenario I’ve permitted myself to dwell on,” he says stiffly. 

Victor feels a pang then, and aches to reach out for Sherlock. He settles for gripping the back of a nearby chair and dropping his gaze to the papers on the table. Sherlock has already resigned himself, less than two months after his fall, to the possibility of never being able to return home. But the idea that he might forever be thought of as a fraud--that he can’t bring himself to accept. 

“Well,” Victor says lightly, “look at it this way. If we can’t bring back Moriarty - if you decide there’s no life left for you in England -  there’s always this place. We’ve got a bit in common, you and I, being dead men and all.”

He tries to make it sound off-hand rather than hopeful, and succeeds. The comment elicits a snort from Sherlock, followed by a weak smile.

“Don’t be absurd,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Moriarty was clever, but his operatives were not. Somewhere, someone along the way has made a mistake. I have every intention of finding it and being able to return home... and I intend to take _you_ with me.”

_ Oh, God _ . Victor can feel his own heart knocking against his ribcage and the blood pounding in his ears. He’s never wanted something so badly in his life, and hates that it can’t happen.

“Much as I appreciate the sentiment,” he says gruffly, thinking quickly, “you know Mycroft won’t allow that.”

Sherlock huffs.

“I don’t intend to let that stop me.” He leans forward, bracing his hands on the table. When he speaks again, his voice is deadly quiet. “You are coming home with me, Victor. And if I have to burn this planet to the ground in order to make that true, I will. Don’t _ever_ doubt that.”


	7. Chapter 7

More than a month after Sherlock’s fall, John and Lestrade are still trying to find their rhythm again.

They had been sleeping together sporadically for over a year before Sherlock’s death, but their relationship had not truly solidified until after the Baskerville case in March. That’s when they began carving out nights together between Lestrade’s long working hours and John’s being dragged around London at Sherlock’s every whim. The arrangement, though still tinged with newness at the edges, had suited them both.

But Sherlock’s death has left them stumbling and interrupted, their stride grinding to a halt. John can’t bring himself to go back to Baker Street yet, and Lestrade won’t turn away this man he’s grown so fond of. But he’s also not entirely used to living with another person--he never has been, not even when he was married--and that coupled with their grief has made things strained.

They find their own little solutions, muddling their way through the days with no precedent and no one to guide them. On particularly rough nights, one of them will sleep in the guest bedroom to give the other space. John starts taking afternoon shifts at the surgery so that he’s usually at work when Lestrade comes home in the evening and, alternatively, has the flat to himself when Lestrade leaves for the Yard in the morning.

It isn’t perfect. But then, they don’t need it to be.

It just has to be enough.

\----

John finally moves back to Baker Street at the end of July. He and Greg then spend the better part of a weekend purging the flat. They disinfect everything in the kitchen and bathroom until the smell of bleach permeates the whole of the flat and leaves them feeling light-headed. Sherlock’s scientific equipment is already in boxes, and most of his personal effects were claimed by Mycroft back in June. With Greg’s help, John packs up the rest of Sherlock’s belongings and comes to a decision about the whole lot.

“Donate them,” he says, and Greg nods.

John keeps Sherlock’s violin and the skull on the mantel. Greg takes a couple of Sherlock’s books.

“What about the furniture?” Greg asks later. It’s night now, and they’re eating takeaway on the floor of the main room. John aches everywhere and is covered in drying sweat, but they’ve nearly completed the task of emptying out the flat. It feels much larger without Sherlock’s belongings in it.

But it’s also starting to feel a bit more like _John’s_ , and he supposes that’s a good sign.

“Haven’t thought about it,” John admits. “It’s going to be a spare room, but I suppose having guests sleep in a dead man’s bed is poor form.”

“Sherlock would have found it amusing,” Lestrade says, and they laugh. “You could turn it into a tourist spot. _Infamous detective slept here_. Charge a fortune for it.”

John snorts at that, too, because the sad part of it is, Lestrade’s right.

“He wasn’t a fraud.”

“I know, Johnny.”

It’s an oft-repeated exchange between the two of them, a reminder that their friend was as real as they had believed, and that they aren’t alone in their faith.

With midnight approaching, John stretches and gets to his feet. Lestrade follows.

“Staying here tonight?” John asks, and Lestrade smiles slowly.

“Of course.” He stretches languidly, working out a kink in his neck, and comments, “We should be able to tackle Sherlock’s desk tomorrow. Clean it out. Then we can start disassembling his furniture. It shouldn’t take more than a day.”

“God, that desk is gonna be a task, though,” John mutters as he stares at it, remembering how he had discovered Sherlock keeping a colony of mice there his first month in the flat. He hasn’t touched the thing since.

Lestrade walks over and pulls out one of the drawers, inspecting it.

“It can’t be that bad. Not nearly as frightening as -”

He stops abruptly.

“Greg?”

Greg’s back is to John; his spine has gone abnormally stiff and rigid. John walks over to him and peers at the drawer.

“Oh,” he breathes. It appears that this is where Sherlock kept all the warrant cards he nicked from Greg over the years. There are at least half a dozen in sight; more are probably buried at the back of the drawer.

“You bastard,” Greg whispers. He reaches out and brushes his fingers along the edge of one card. “You stupid, _stupid_ bastard. What’d you have to go and die for, hey?”

John puts a hand on his shoulder and Greg seems to come back to himself. He gives a tiny shake of his head and murmurs, “I’ll start cleaning the dishes. Go on up without me, if you like. I’ll be up there soon.”

When Greg turns to look at him, John already has a protest on his tongue. But then their eyes meet, and John swallows back what he’d been about to say. Greg’s eyes are raw, and John decides it’s best not to press this matter. Whatever is truly bothering Greg, he’ll tell in his own time.

“Don’t be too long,” John says finally. He gives Greg’s elbow an affectionate squeeze and goes to shower.

\----

Everyone assumes he met Sherlock over a crime scene.

Greg supposes there’s some truth to that, but not in the way that most people think, because the crime scene was years behind him when he opened his email that day six years ago and drafted a message to _Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective_.

It had been desperate and mad and absurd. But it was a senseless action that was provoked by a senseless crime, and that seemed justification enough at the time. The fact that Sherlock had solved nearly every other case Greg threw at him after that initial one was additional proof. It was a rationalization he could both use on his superiors and on himself at night, when there was nothing, finally, to distract himself from Michael’s bloodless face and nameless killer.

Greg gives a quiet sigh and shakes his head, as though he can physically dislodge his restless thoughts. He runs the tap and begins washing their plates, but that mindless task isn’t enough to distract him from the memories. He doesn’t know why seeing those warrant cards has brought on such a wave of melancholy. He’s spent the entire day rooting through Sherlock’s personal items and boxing them up for storage or donation.

But the warrant cards were their own personal game, Sherlock nicking them from Greg and Greg stealing them back whenever he happened to be at Baker Street. Seeing them here tonight is a reminder that Sherlock truly isn’t coming back... and that Greg is the one who failed him. He can’t help but then think of how it all began, wondering if he would have done anything differently if given the chance.

No. He pulled Sherlock into this life and kept him here, and he would do it again. Perhaps that’s the most sobering thought of all.

John finishes showering and retreats back upstairs to change. He comes back down a few minutes later, however, dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a worn t-shirt. He grabs a towel and begins drying the dishes that Greg has already washed. They don’t say anything, but the companionable silence that stretches between them soon becomes expectant.

“The first case I ever gave him,” Greg says finally, when the silence becomes unbearable, “Sherlock couldn’t solve.”

It’s some moments more before he can compel himself to move. When he does, he wipes a soapy hand on the back of his jeans and then tugs his wallet from his pocket. He flips it open and hands it to John, who peruses it for a full minute before asking, “Brother?”

Greg isn’t sure whether it’s those initial eighteen months of living with Sherlock Holmes that’s rubbed off on John, or a family resemblance that John’s noticed but that will forever elude him. Regardless, he takes the wallet back from John and nods, not sparing a glance at the dark-haired youth in the picture before he puts it away. He’s seen it enough.

“Michael.”

“What happened?” John asks at once, because he isn’t the idiot Sherlock always so cheerfully labeled him and has guessed at once the reason for Greg’s melancholy.

Greg snorts. “What do you think happened?”

It’s the pitying silence that follows that forces Greg to continue almost immediately, because he does not need another _I’m sorry_. “He was a good deal younger than I was; a surprise pregnancy. He was born only a few years before I left home for good, and he was only six when he died. Killed; he was killed.

“The case was years old when I took it to Sherlock,” Greg goes on, voice hollow even to his own ears. “Heard about him somewhere--maybe in a pub over too many drinks. This... _genius_ kid who called himself a consulting detective. A bit mad, a bit wild, but downright brilliant.”

And _a bit_ was putting it lightly, truth be told. Sherlock had had Victor, a fellow genius who kept the tedium at bay and reminded Sherlock that he wasn’t alone in the world. But both boys had been self-destructive in their own ways, and their relationship had weathered a number of crises in the short time that Lestrade knew them while Victor was still alive. Whenever they split, it wasn’t for long, and they never came back together so much as they crashed and fell together again, each drawn to the other by forces beyond his control.

Greg likes to think, in his darkest moments, that he may have been the one thing to Sherlock that Victor couldn’t be--an anchor, a constant, a steady presence in a world where Sherlock’s lover left for missions on a moment’s notice and wasn’t heard from for weeks at a time. Greg wants to hope that something good came of his association with Sherlock; that there is a consolation prize to be found in all of this, for he can’t help but also believe that their association also led to Sherlock’s death.

“Anyway,” Greg goes on, realising that he’s been quiet for too long, “Sherlock couldn’t solve it. But he took a glance at my watch the first time we met and told me my entire life story without missing a beat, so I knew I couldn’t let him just disappear. He could... He could maybe help others, even if he couldn’t help me.”

Greg takes a breath, holds it, tries to will away the faint burning beginning to build just behind his eyes. He does, and then gives a bitter huff of laughter. “Can’t even remember what his voice sounds like anymore. Michael’s, I mean. Don’t remember much of him, most days, t’be honest.” Greg’s voice drops a fraction, he adds, “He was the kindest soul I knew, ‘til... Until I met you.”

He knows what John wants to hear next: a heartwarming ending that leaves the tale feeling bittersweet at best. _I joined the force after that because of my brother_. But while that less-than-truth may work on most, he can’t compel himself to use it on John, the only person on this planet who has seen Greg not only at his best but also at his worst. He’s never turned away from Greg before, and Greg doesn’t _want_ to keep anything from him.

And so Greg says, “I joined the force after that because I had nothing else left,” which is the closest he’s ever come to speaking the truth out loud.

When he finally chances a look at John’s eyes, they aren’t pitying or disappointed. Instead, they are raw and understanding, and they burn with the same pain Greg lives with every day--all for a child he never knew. Greg realises that--not for the first time--he hasn’t given his lover enough credit.

As ever, John is more than he deserves.

They return to cleaning the dishes, the silence more comfortable this time despite the subject of their conversation.

“It’s interesting,” John comments after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“You and Sherlock,” John muses. “Mycroft mentioned before the burial that their father was dead. It made me wonder... Well, I think he was so fond of you because you might have filled a role he had been missing.”

Greg snorts quietly.

“He had a stepfather, John,” he says. “I was the only officer at the Met who would let him in on cases, of course he was... fond of me.”

“Did they get along? Sherlock and his stepfather.”

“No,” Greg admits. John nods, as though that confirms it for him.

“And now I wonder if perhaps you were doing the same thing, keeping him in your life because he filled a role _you_ had been missing.”

“Maybe,” Greg concedes, because more than once over the past several years he’s wondered if he took a chance on Sherlock because he reminded Greg of the child he had barely had a chance to know; if Greg saved him in a way that he couldn’t save Michael. Except that wasn’t quite true, not anymore.

John, as though he can see where Greg’s thoughts are leading him, puts a hand on his arm.

“You weren’t responsible for his death,” he says in a low voice. “You were caught in an awful position, Greg. You _had_ to do your job. How could you have known what Sherlock was about to do? None of us had any clue.”

Greg sighs and cups John’s face in his hands.

“What did I do,” he wonders fondly, “to ever deserve you?”

Greg can tell that John knows he’s trying to change the subject, and the look that comes over John’s face is almost exasperated. But he lets it pass and pulls Greg in for a kiss.

“Says the man who’s giving up his first free weekend in _ages_ to help me clear out a dead man’s room.”

“Anything for you, John.”

On any other day, that sentiment would have been met with a snort or a roll of John’s eyes, as he was wont to do whenever Greg got overly sentimental on him. But this time the humour leaves John’s face.

“You really mean that, don’t you?” he says quietly, more a statement than a question. “You truly mean... _anything.”_

Greg hesitates for less than a second.

“Yes,” he says, because he _does_. He’s not saying it because he believes it’s expected of him at this point in a relationship, or because he thinks it’s something that John wants to hear.

He would do _anything_ for John.

John’s face splits into an unexpected grin, and he pulls Greg in again for a sound kiss.

“I love you, too, you prat.”

\----

Sherlock and Victor pass their final week in Victor’s home quietly. 

Victor officially resigns from his position and Sherlock uses the time to start to work on building strength back up in his arm again. He doesn’t have a full range of motion in it yet and the muscles are still visibly atrophied, but he can accomplish menial tasks with it. It’s a start, at least. He will have to continue to build up strength in it while they’re on their mission, for their brief respite has finally come to an end.

A little over a month and a half has now passed since Sherlock’s fall. Moran and his associates will no longer be thinking about him, if ever they had doubts about his death in the first place. Victor makes arrangements for the first leg of their travels. Once that is accomplished, Sherlock makes his first--and final--call to Mycroft. Their conversation is short, and they exchange brief, vague words about Sherlock’s travel plans, because any number of ears could be listening in. 

Victor, sitting at the other end of the table, is leafing through the morning’s paper and not paying close attention to the phone call. Nevertheless, he finds his attention drawn to it when the cadence of Sherlock’s speech shifts, indicating the conversation drawing to a close. He hears Mycroft’s tinny, “Be well,” and looks up.

Sherlock, in the moment before he notices Victor’s gaze, looks despondent. His quiet, “And you,” is barely audible. 

Sherlock and Victor plan to travel light, each of them packing only one bag to take along on the mission. They pack their laptops and wallets; their forged identities and brand-new mobile phones. Midnight finds them by the fireplace in the main room, feeding into it pictures and papers Victor wouldn’t want found by an outside party. He’ll lock up the house when they leave, and doesn’t plan on seeing it again.

When this is over--provided they survive--he’ll have to move on. 

“That, too,” Sherlock says quietly when Victor’s hand pauses over a small picture that came with the file, that of a dark-haired youth bent over a book, the camera catching him unawares as he reads. Victor’s long forgotten the photographer, but the picture captures Sherlock at eighteen, back when they were just on the edge of a deep affection. It is curious to peer at it now, knowing all that came afterward; knowing all that they would become.

“Yeah,” Victor murmurs, and tosses it into the flames.

They sit there for some time, watching the papers darken and curl as the flames devour them.

Victor leans back on his elbows, watching the now-dying flames. His mind strays to four years ago, when he had woken up in the private ward of a French hospital, surrounded by strangers and without a clear memory of how he had come to be there. Regaining his memories had been a process as slow as his physical recovery, and it didn’t help that Mycroft Holmes had waited over a week before traveling to the Continent to meet with him in person.

Ten days of pain, surgeries, and unanswered questions had taken their toll--Victor hadn’t known whether to scream at Mycroft or weep at the sight of a familiar, if unwelcome, face, and so settled for punching the other man instead. When he had been relocated to this house to finish out his recovery and start his new life, all he had had left of Sherlock was a memory of the photographs he’s now feeding into the fire.

He and Mycroft have made their peace since those early days, especially once the Bolivia mission ended. Victor has since come to understand why Mycroft did what he did, and Mycroft in turn has come to terms with the decisions Victor’s made since then. It isn’t the partnership either envisioned when this whole situation began, but they have been united by a common cause--Sherlock. And while men like them can’t afford to have friends, Victor knows that Mycroft is the closest thing he’s had to one these past four years. He’d wager the same is true for Mycroft.

“What are you thinking about?”

The question startles Victor out of his thoughts.

“Can’t you tell?” he asks, recovering himself.

“No,” Sherlock says. “It’s....”

“Frustrating?”

“Refreshing.”

Victor gives a sad smile that fades quickly from his face.

“I’m thinking,” he says slowly, “that this all rather feels like a dream. And that dreams end.”

“Everything ends,” Sherlock says as the fire spits and sputters, its reserves run low.

Moments later, it is gone, and they are alone among the ashes of a history they now only share in memory.

\----

Sherlock and Victor take separate flights to Barcelona and meet up again inside the terminal, amid the hordes of businessmen and holiday travelers. They are traveling under their first set of forged identities, and with them are able to rent a car for the short drive to Viladecans. They have only a limited number of these identities, and will need to make them last as long as possible. This first set, Sherlock knows, must be discarded after this quick trip. It is an unfortunate waste, but a necessary one.

Years of living under Mycroft’s instruction have influenced Victor more than he probably realises, for he hasn’t yet questioned Sherlock’s desire to travel to this city. He knows that answers will either be forthcoming or are unnecessary for his involvement in the plan. Thus, the drive is relatively silent.

They arrive at their destination in the middle of the afternoon. The street Sherlock drives down is comprised entirely of brownstones, each one sturdy and unassuming. Victor eyes the plain homes in some bemusement. But he doesn’t comment on them; simply asks, “What’s the plan?”

“Do you remember the Patterson case?”

Victor gives a sharp nod and casts a critical eye over the houses, mapping out a quick strategy.

“I can go around back, climb in through one of the second-storey windows,” he decides finally. “Old houses like these, they’re not too difficult to scale. How many?”

“She’ll have only one assistant,” Sherlock says. 

Victor arches an eyebrow, bemused. He doesn’t voice his incredulity, though Sherlock knows well what he is thinking--his skills are being severely under-utilized in this instance, if there is only one adversary.

“Incapacitate the assistant?” Victor brushes his hand over the breast pocket of his suit--a nervous habit, reassuring himself that the ever-present gun is still there. 

“Yes, but don’t kill her. I don’t want any other ears listening, but it would be unwise to start a body count this early on in the mission.”

They park the car several streets away and separate quickly. 

Sherlock purposefully picks the lock on the front door of the house and lets himself in. The house is vast and silent, seemingly empty, though he knows that isn’t actually the case. He walks over a small panel on the wall, the house’s security system, and checks the readout. He smirks to himself, having confirmed that he triggered the silent alarm with his break-in, and moves into the nearby sitting room. The alarm will bring her, of that he is certain, and also ensures that she cannot pull any tricks on them. She will have to hand over her information in the mere minutes they have before the police arrive.

And if she doesn’t, well... He knows her real name. And the half-dozen cases of blackmail that she’s wanted for in Spain alone.

“That was rude of you, you know.”

Sherlock turns at the voice. Irene Adler is standing in the doorway, looking more amused than put out.

“You could have just knocked,” she adds, and enters the room fully. She’s wearing loose-fitting, high-waisted trousers as dark as her hair, with gloves to match. Her blouse is light, as is the wide-brimmed hat that perches delicately on top of her coiffed hair. She wears no makeup sans a touch of red on her lips. “Don’t you trust me?”

“No.” He inclines his head in greeting. “Miss Adler.”

“Mr Holmes,” she says sweetly, tugging off her gloves and removing her hat. She places them on a nearby table. “You’re late. I expected you weeks ago.”

“Change of plans.”

He doesn’t rise to meet her, and she makes no further move to greet him. Instead, she takes a seat opposite him, pulls out a packet of cigarettes, and lights one. She holds out the pack to him; he shakes his head.

“Oh, that’s right, you’ve quit,” she says with a smirk. “I’d forgotten.”

“If we could come to the point...”

“We will, dear, eventually,” she drawls. “First, we’re going to have a little chat.”

The door to the room opens again, the timing as impeccable as Irene herself, and Victor is led in at gunpoint. He rests his hands on his head and gives Sherlock an exasperated half-shrug _._ Irene’s assistant, whose name Sherlock never bothered to commit to memory, is holding the gun, and after a moment Sherlock realises that it’s Victor’s own.

_ Hell _ .

He grimaces, and Irene’s lips curl into a smirk.

“If you two are _quite_ finished making eyes at one another,” she murmurs, “we have business to discuss. Kate, do keep our other guest... _comfortable_.”

“Yes, Miss Adler,” Kate drawls, and Victor is led away again.

“He’s a pretty thing, isn’t he?” Irene says when they have gone. “I wonder why you never mentioned him.”

“It wasn’t relevant. Can we get back to the point?”

“I believe that _was_ the point, dear. You deceived me.”

“Not intentionally,” Sherlock admits despite himself. “When I first contacted you, I _was_ to be working alone.”

“It’s been over a month since your fall, surely some advance notice would have been warranted?” Irene flashes a smile. “Though I suppose it is distracting, finding out one’s supposedly-dead lover is, in fact, alive.”

Sherlock feels his jaw tighten at her words. He doesn’t even bother to ask how she knows.

“What does Moran know about our... history?”

“What makes you think he knows anything?” Irene asks calmly.

“Because you do,” Sherlock answers. “And everything you knew about me, you shared with Moriarty. Who likely would have shared it with Moran.”

“That’s a lot of guesswork, dear,” Irene says sweetly.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “But only Mycroft and Lestrade ever knew of our... close association. Yet, somehow you found out as well.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because, six months ago, you were looking to undermine me,” Sherlock says quietly, mind traveling unbidden to this past Christmas--a time he’d much rather forget. “And you surmised that the best way to throw me off was to appeal to... was to appeal to what I had been missing. Quite correctly, I must admit.”

“Reminded you of him, did I?” Irene smirks and leans back in her chair. “Good. I _had_ hoped that would work.”

“You’re the closest anyone’s ever come,” Sherlock admits. Even closer than John, though he doesn’t share that thought out loud. Irene _is_ Victor, from her brilliance to her confidence to her myriad disguises. “Well played.”

“I thought so.” Irene’s face turns impassive for a moment. “Six months ago, you told me that sentiment is a defect that only is found in the losing side. And yet here you are, with him, about to embark on this... mission. You’re going to get him killed, you know.”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t.” Irene taps her cigarette over the ashtray. “I don’t like being in anyone’s debt, not even yours, so consider this bit of advice a form of payment: Leave him behind.”

“How extraordinarily helpful,” Sherlock says dryly. “However, I was thinking of a different form of... payment.”

Irene practically leers at him.

“At the right end of a _whip_ , I should hope.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock says with a barely-restrained eye roll.

“Pity.”

“That’s one way of putting it. I need names, Irene.”

He expects her to delay him further. Instead, she says, “Quite right,” and gets up from the sofa. She walks over to her desk and pulls out a file from the top drawer.

“Five names,” she says, “and five locations, as we discussed. Nothing more. You’ll have to figure out the specifics for yourself.”

Sherlock rises and holds out his hand. She pauses in handing over the folder.

“Six months,” she says.

“Until?”

“Moran knows about your past with Victor, that’s correct. In six months, I’ll tell him that Victor is alive. I’m sure he would find the information quite... intriguing.”

The bottom drops out of Sherlock’s stomach.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” he snaps irritably, nerves already frayed and now threatening to break. Irene arches an elegant eyebrow, seemingly amused.

“And neither was he,” she says.

“Why would you do this?”

Irene shrugs, the smirk back on her face.

“For protection. To incur a debt. To amuse myself. Any and all of the above, dear, take your pick.” She puts the folder in his hand. “If you complete your mission beforehand, so much the better for you. I will reveal nothing more than that Victor’s alive. That alone should occupy Moran for a time.”

“Perhaps even long enough for him to forget about you.”

“Long enough for us to slip even deeper into hiding, yes, that’s the idea. You may have fooled that brother of yours with your _daring_ rescue, but Moran is a good deal more skeptical than he. I have information he would find extraordinarily useful, so I’m still very much on his radar.” She levels an amused gaze at him. “Come now, Sherlock, surely you saw this coming. The only reason you rescued me was so you could make use of what I knew about Moriarty’s network. You’d seen your fall coming for _months_. You’ve been planning for this moment since Christmas. Did you really believe I wouldn’t have been as well?”

“I would have been disappointed had you not, in fact.” Sherlock takes the folder and inclines his head, the closest she will get to a _thank you_. “Am I to assume you will allow us to leave unmolested?”

“You’re certainly no use to me if you can’t get started with your mission.” Irene gestures to the door. “You’ll find your friend in Kate’s bedroom. Second floor. Most likely he’s unharmed, though one can never tell with her. Now hurry along, dear, before the police get here.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says softly as she turns away again, hand feeling for the gun he has tucked in his jacket. “That would be advisable, I should think.”

 

Sherlock finds Victor tied to a chair in the indicated bedroom, Irene’s assistant nowhere in sight. Victor is spitting curses, furious that he had been so easily overcome, and Sherlock has to steer him forcibly from the bedroom.

“My gun -”

“We’ll get another,” Sherlock says harshly. _“Come on._ ”

Victor follows without further protest. Later, in the car, he finally says, “I thought we weren’t going to start a body count this early in the mission.”

Sherlock’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white, but he says nothing.

“I heard the shot,” Victor presses. “I’m not an idiot, Sherlock.”

“I never accused you of being one,” Sherlock says tightly. “She owed me a debt, and she repaid me with information.”

“Shooting her doesn’t seem much like fair play to me, then,” Victor comments, though he sounds more curious than reprimanding.

“Yes, well, then she stopped playing _fair_ ,” Sherlock says, so shortly that it silences Victor’s questions. “So I did as well.”

There are a great many things Sherlock can abide, and he has been known to forgive a lot if a person is clever enough--which Irene was, no question about that. But there are a few things that are absolutely beyond the limit, and always have been.

Threatening Victor is one of those. 

But his actions have done nothing to silence the doubt he has about this mission’s success, nor have they quieted the warning voice that still echoes through his mind.

_ You’re going to get him killed _ .

“We’ll not speak of this again,” Sherlock says abruptly, though Victor has said nothing.

Victor nods, and is silent the rest of the drive.


	8. Chapter 8

They pass themselves off as brothers in Madrid.

The first name on Irene Adler’s list has led them here, to a man named Marc Cortez. Victor dyes his hair until it is a shade lighter than Sherlock’s usual colour; Sherlock keeps his flame-kissed strands. 

It takes them less than a day to find their man, and Sherlock spends the better part of an afternoon plying him with drinks while they chat, two men who happen to fall into conversation with one another while visiting a local bar. From what Sherlock is eventually able to pry out of him, Cortez appears to have been client of Moriarty’s, nothing more, having used Moriarty’s services to be rid of his brother so that he might have a chance with his sister-in-law.

He spends the better part of two hours bemoaning the fact that he was unsuccessful with her, but appears to miss his brother not at all. Sherlock wants to weep at the banality of it all.

_ Dull _ , he confides in Victor later. _Stupid_. How could a simple biological drive make people lose themselves so completely?

“Well, it’s good news for us that it did,” Victor points out, and Sherlock is forced to agree. “He may not be important--probably never even met Moriarty--but we need to start somewhere.”

Victor turns Cortez’s flat upside-down in the meantime, hacks into his computer, and goes through all his files. It takes him nearly two hours, but eventually he dredges up a scrap of an email and finds that Cortez’s contact within Moriarty’s network had been contacting him from an email address located in Greece.

Marc Cortez goes to work the next morning viciously hungover and uneasy about the fragments of memories that remain from the day before. He remembers a distinctive stranger and a too-revealing conversation, and sends a warning email to his contact within Moriarty’s network.

Victor intercepts that email, and had tampered with Cortez’s briefcase the day before while Sherlock kept him otherwise occupied.

When the factory goes up in flames that morning, it is passed off as an industrial accident.

By the afternoon, Sherlock and Victor are in Athens.

\----

John doesn’t stop writing after Sherlock’s fall.

He’d intended to, certainly, but as the days turn into weeks the distance of time numbs the immediacy of the pain, and John slowly starts to pull out of the shell he’s created around himself. It’s only then that he can see that time marches on, and that he has the world’s most patient lover, because though their relationship was still new when Sherlock died, Greg hasn’t begrudged John his grief for a moment.

And, John soon comes to realize, Sherlock had more friends than any of them had previously believed. John’s blog had attracted a number of loyal followers while Sherlock was still alive, both previous clients and curious individuals alike, and after his death, the cases continue to live on in the imaginations of John’s readership.

So John finds himself continuing to write, albeit at a much slower pace, because they all have become characters of a sort, he and Sherlock and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Even after Sherlock’s fall, the readers have remained invested in the story. They want to know how Mrs Hudson is doing; what dark warehouse Mycroft has secreted John off to for that month’s clandestine meeting; what odd and eccentric item of Sherlock’s John has dug up during his weekly cleaning of the flat.

He keeps Greg out of it, but talks a good deal about Lestrade. He talks about how Lestrade nearly lost his job but not his faith in Sherlock; he talks about their pub nights; he writes up the last few cases that Sherlock worked for Lestrade. He makes the mistake, once, of including a picture of the three of them, snapped at a press conference in January. No less than ten people comment on that post, wanting to know if a certain Detective Inspector might also be single.

“ _No_ ,” Greg bellows from the kitchen when John starts reading those particular comments out loud, chuckling madly all the while. “No, I most certainly am _not_ available! Tell those readers of yours to bugger off! Give them Dimmock’s number!”

“Are you sure, Greg?” John chortles. “They sound quite, er, _enthusiastic._ ”

“Make a new post, then,” Greg calls to him. “ _Greg Lestrade is very happily taken, so fuck off_.”

“Doubt that would stop them,” John snorts. “They’re quite persistent. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Fine. _Greg Lestrade is engaged to the kindest man this planet has ever known and has no interest in your propositions.”_

John blinks, and looks up. Greg is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the frame with his arms folded across his chest. There’s a small, amused smile on his face.

“We’re not engaged,” John says stupidly.

Greg lifts one shoulder in an easy shrug.

“Would you like to be?”

John’s mouth goes dry.

“Are you asking?” he croaks.

Greg pushes himself off the door and goes to crouch before John’s chair. He curls a hand over John’s knee, cupping it tenderly, and John automatically reaches for it, twisting their fingers together.

“Yeah, Johnny,” Greg says quietly. “I’m asking.”

\----

In Greece, Sherlock and Victor track down Marc Cortez’s contact. He is a man who used Moriarty’s services to be rid of his wife so that he could inherit her fortune. He was so grateful--and so useful--that he subsequently became a low-key member of Moriarty’s network. 

Victor again taps into the contact’s computer and searches his flat, but he can dredge up no hard evidence that pertains to either Moriarty or Richard Brook. Sherlock follows the man for several days, never making contact, and through his daily activities Sherlock is able to discover the identities of half a dozen more members of Moriarty’s network here in Athens alone. 

Sherlock and Victor then settle in the heart of the city, finding a cramped but affordable flat. It’s airless and hot, even with all the windows thrown wide, but it’s all they need. Victor finds work. It brings in little money, but it allows them to scrape by. Sherlock spends his days following the members of the network, trying to figure out what it is that makes the Greek branch so important to Moran. If he and Victor can find a vulnerability, they can dismantle the branch and move on. 

And every now and again, Sherlock finds an excuse to make contact with a member of the network. Sometimes he poses as a customer at their day job and strikes up a conversation; other times he’s a stranger who happens to bump into them on the street. He probes as carefully as he can, hoping they will slip up without realising it and give him a clue as to where hard evidence of Moriarty might exist.

In this manner, Sherlock gathers a good deal of anecdotal evidence but nothing solid. By mid-August, he is in little better a position than he was the day he jumped from Barts.

Then, one morning, one of Moriarty’s workers in Athens dies from a gunshot wound to the head--sniper, long-distance. The next day, another is gunned down in the middle of a busy marketplace, the head shot neat and efficient. There are, miraculously, no other casualties.

Two days later, a third member is found dead in her home, shot in the head as she stood in her kitchen.

Victor and Sherlock flee the country.

\-------------

The first time Sherlock and Victor stop for breath, they are in Liechtenstein. It is the second location on the list that Sherlock obtained from Irene Adler, and there are two names that accompany this particular location. They must abandon all of the information they gathered in Athens and attack the network from a different angle--and a different branch--this time around. 

They find accommodations in a tiny room of an even tinier inn. Years of disuse have not dulled Victor’s German--nor, apparently, Sherlock’s--and they are able to pass as Swiss natives visiting relatives in Vaduz. Sherlock spends several afternoons frequenting cafes in the area, though he won’t tell Victor what he’s up to, or even if it pertains to their mission.

Victor is able to see the entirety of the small town in one afternoon, and after that is left with too much time and too few ways to fill it. He has been running on adrenaline since Greece and suddenly finds himself adrift, with too much nervous energy and no way to be rid of it. He finally takes to hiking the steep hills that surround the town, traveling along paths long worn by frequent use. He rises before Sherlock in the mornings and spends an hour running, taking advantage of the town’s pre-dawn slumber. Weeks of following Sherlock, fueled by little sleep and too much caffeine, have done little to help his physique, and he’ll be of little use to Sherlock in an actual confrontation if he can’t build himself up again.

One morning, Victor returns from a run to find Sherlock still in their room.

“Liechtenstein is one of the few countries in the world,” Sherlock announces as Victor steps through the door, “that has more companies than citizens.”

“Uh-huh,” Victor says, stripping off his shirt and tossing it in the direction of his bag. He steps into the bathroom, finishes undressing, and turns on the shower. “And?”

Sherlock appears in the doorway. He crosses his arms and leans against the frame. Dimly, in the back of his mind, Victor knows that he should find this strange. But he’s never felt comfortable around anyone the way he feels at ease around Sherlock, and he cannot bring himself to find it odd. Sherlock has never been one for personal boundaries--either due to complete obliviousness or plain disinterest, Victor’s never been sure--and no one else on the planet knows Victor so thoroughly. Sherlock’s not another person, not really, but simply an extension of Victor himself--as he is of Sherlock in return.

“It’s also the wealthiest German-speaking country in the world,” Sherlock goes on.

“Your point?” Victor steps under the cool spray and closes the curtain behind him. He allows the water first to rinse away the sweat and cool his overheated limbs. Then he turns up the temperature, and the heated water starts to pound away the ache in his muscles. 

“None at all. I know you have a penchant for useless trivia.”

Victor rolls his eyes. 

“All right, then, what _did_ you find? Something pertaining to the mission at hand, I do hope.”

He can almost feel Sherlock’s nod.

"The two names on Irene Adler’s list are a married couple who fell into no small amount of debt with some unsavoury individuals. The husband was a high-profile banker; the wife was a solicitor. It wasn’t an easy job, making them disappear and relocating them to this country. And for the difficult jobs, Moriarty would call in key members of his network.”

“Did they ever have contact with Moriarty directly?”

Victor imagines he can feel Sherlock’s grimace.

“Unfortunately, no,” he admits in frustration. “They were completely useless in that respect, and it appears that the network doesn’t have a branch here. However, I’m hoping that their contact proves to be a bit more useful. We’ll need to leave for South Africa in order to track him down.”

“When?”

“Within a day would be ideal,” Sherlock says. “I’d feel more comfortable if we were out of here by dawn.”

Victor nods to himself and finishes washing. Now that they have a clear goal, a new direction, the listlessness has fled from his mind and adrenaline spikes in his chest. He shuts off the shower and steps out; towels off with brisk efficiency while Sherlock continues to outline his plan. He’s only half-listening, his mind already planning out how they might make it to South Africa undetected. The quickest, most efficient route is out of the question. It’s entirely possible that they are being followed, given how quickly they were found out in Greece. They need to throw whoever might be watching them off the trail, if they haven’t accomplished that already.

He secures a towel around his waist and goes out into the main room, Sherlock following him and continuing to talk. Victor hums in agreement at the right moments, his mind still occupied elsewhere. He puts on a pair of trousers and begins to toss items into his bag, hoping that by doing so he will also come across a clean shirt to wear. So occupied is he with his tasks, in fact, that it takes him some moments to realise that Sherlock has stopped speaking. 

Victor turns and arches a questioning eyebrow at him. Sherlock is watching him work, but his expression has changed. His cheeks are no longer tinged pink with the excitement brought on by the thrill of another puzzle. Instead, it appears as though he has been struck. 

“What is it?”

Sherlock shakes his head, his expression clearing suddenly.

“Nothing,” he says briskly, turning away and reaching for his own bag. “Apologies. I’ve been a bit... preoccupied. Have you seen my passport?”

\----

Later that night, Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on his bed, chin on his fist, watching as Victor paces the length of the room with his mobile pressed to his ear. He’s attempting to arrange their passage to South Africa, which is more complicated than it sounds. He’s been at it for over an hour now, as it isn’t wise for them to take the most direct route to the country, not after their scare in Greece. 

“Right, that’s that,” Victor says in relief as he rings off and tosses his mobile onto his bed. “I think I’ve just completed the most complicated travel plan in history. South Africa by way of Switzerland, Italy, and Portugal. We leave just after dawn tomorrow.”

Sherlock nods absently and, after a beat, remembers to thank him. 

“Not a problem. Used to do this kind of thing all the time for a living, you remember.” Victor rolls his shoulder, cracking it, and sighs. He then turns away to gather the remainder of his clothing. Sherlock, who is already packed, continues to watch him.

“And was it always this easy for you?”

The question stuns Sherlock nearly as much as it appears to Victor, for he hadn’t intended to speak the words aloud. Victor covers his surprise quickly and continues to gather his things.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks lightly, but his words carry a warning tone.

“Leaving,” Sherlock presses, unsure as to why he can’t simply let it drop. Now that the initial question is out, he can’t stop the rest of his words. “Was it always this easy?”

Victor pauses.

“It was a job, Sherlock,” he says quietly. “We both knew what we were getting into when I took Mycroft up on his offer of work.”

And he’s right, of course he is. Victor entering Mycroft’s employ had meant long hours at the office and last-minute missions; had meant weeks abroad and certain amounts of secrecy. It meant danger and disaster, was unfit for anyone burdened by large amounts of empathy, and Victor wouldn’t have given it up for anything. Nor would Sherlock have asked that of him, because he knows what the tedium is like. He knows what the work means to both of them. 

That doesn’t make this any easier, and Sherlock hates himself for it. 

“And was it easy,” Sherlock goes on, “to stay away?”

Victor stiffens, but he doesn’t turn around. He resumes packing his things.

“We’ve been over this already,” he says shortly. “And besides, I’m not having this discussion right now.”

“I am.” Sherlock can feel anger beginning to flare in his chest. Victor straightens and turns to face him fully. “I thought you were _dead,_ Victor.”

“I couldn’t come back, Sherlock. I am _so_ sorry, but I couldn’t.” 

“Yes, so you keep saying, but you have yet to tell me why. _Why_ wouldn’t Mycroft let you return?”

“I’ve told you -”

“You have told me _nothing.”_

Victor’s hand has curled into a fist. He forces it open again, and even in the dim light of the room Sherlock can see his fingers trembling with the effort it’s taking him to keep his composure. He looks away, fixing his gaze on a point in the wall just above Sherlock’s shoulder, gathering himself.

When he meets Sherlock’s gaze again, his eyes are raw.

“No. I simply haven’t told you _everything.”_ Victor draws a breath. “Back in France, I told you that your brother needed me dead so that I could complete a sensitive mission for him. That part is true enough.”

“But,” Sherlock prompts impatiently.

“But,” Victor says, “There was something even more important than that at stake.”

“What?”

“You.” Victor sighs. “I died... because of you.”

Sherlock draws his brows together in a frown.

“I don’t understand.”

“Trust me, I know the feeling. It’s... a bit complicated. I had trouble wrapping my head around it at first.” Victor sighs. “Mycroft believes that Moriarty has been obsessed with you for years, Sherlock. You caught his attention with your interest in the Carl Powers case. You were... what, eleven? He was even younger. Your questions intrigued him, and he never forgot it. Never forgot _you_. And everything that’s happened since then between you and Moriarty has been a test. A test to see if you were truly as interesting and brilliant as Moriarty hoped. That’s what I meant when I said he would have come for you anyway, whether you had engaged him or not.” 

“Mycroft’s known about Moriarty all this time,” Sherlock mutters, feeling his eyes widen fractionally as realisation sets in.

“He’s known for some time that there exists--existed--someone as brilliant as you,” Victor says. “But the full extent of Moriarty’s influence wasn’t truly known until after you and I had left university. Once Mycroft started to realise what a threat Moriarty was on the verge of becoming... he started to grow concerned. And he came to believe that I was as much a threat to you--and to the country--as Moriarty was, but for entirely different reasons.”

“Mycroft grew concerned that Moriarty would kill you to get at me,” Sherlock says, trying to pull the pieces together. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“There are some fates worse than death, Sherlock,” Victor points out. “He wasn’t worried about me dying; he was concerned over your allegiance to the country. He knew I was your foil - oh, don’t look like that; you know it’s true - and that, should I ever be captured or harmed _specifically_ by Moriarty, you would do _anything_ in your power to get me back. Just as I would do if our situations were reversed. You might give Moriarty valuable information or even go to work for him. Offer your services. Because of me, you became a liability for the entire country, and Mycroft couldn’t abide that.”

“Mycroft got rid of you,” Sherlock says slowly, deadly quiet, “because there was a small, _negligible_ chance that I would go to work for _Moriarty?_ And you _let him?”_

“I didn’t like it,” Victor says softly, “and I didn’t agree with it, not at first. But I couldn’t let you fall into Moriarty’s hands. I couldn’t let you be hurt because of me.”

Sherlock draws back. 

“Too late,” he says quietly, and Victor’s mouth twists horribly.

“Sherlock, there’s not a _day_ that went by where I didn’t miss you,” he says in a low, vehement voice. It wavers on the last word, and he swallows. “There’s not a moment that passed where I didn’t wish I could be with you. For God’s sake, _believe me._ I only ever wanted to keep you safe... even if that meant having to be away from you.”

And the worst part of this whole thing is that he’s right. Sherlock had proven that already even before this mission truly started, back in Irene Adler’s brownstone. He proved Victor and Mycroft right without even meaning to, lashing out when there was a threat to Victor’s safety. It’s the only time he ever forgets himself, the only time when sentiment comes before rationality. 

Victor makes him a liability. And if ever Victor had been captured by Moriarty--if ever he is captured by Moran--Sherlock will have no trouble abandoning all sense and going after him. 

His only allegiance now, as it ever has been, is to Victor.

_ Damn it all _ .

“And the reason Mycroft’s throwing that all away now...” Sherlock trails off. 

“He told me that the benefits outweigh the risks this time around,” Victor says softly. Sherlock nods slowly.

“He said the same thing to me.” Sherlock drags a tongue across dry lips and gives a bitter laugh. “And, good Christ, he’s right. Moran is even more dangerous than Moriarty was. We’ve seen that already, I think. Irene Adler seemed to think he is a good deal more rational. He is methodical and unburdened by tedium. We _are_ the only chance for taking down the network now that it’s in his hands. _The potential benefits outweigh the risks._ If we can’t dismantle the network... no one can.”

“We will.”

“You’d best be right about that.” Sherlock scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Would you have ever come back?”

Victor swallows.

“I couldn’t,” he says gently, and how Sherlock _hates_ that refrain. Especially now that he suspects that it’s true. “If not for your fall, I wouldn’t even be with you now. I don’t know if ever I would have been able to come back. But that doesn’t mean... That doesn’t mean I wasn’t doing _everything_ in my power to try to return. My missions all had a purpose, Sherlock. I was trying to undermine Moriarty long before you even knew who he was. I had hoped I would manage to take him out before he had a chance to get to you. I was woefully unsuccessful, and there’s not a day that passes where I don’t regret that. Nevertheless, I was still _fighting_ to come back home, you have to believe me. But sometimes... sometimes fighting isn’t enough.”

“But would you have _come back?”_ Sherlock repeats in a low voice. Sorrow etches itself into Victor’s features.

“Yes,” he whispers, voice full of regret. “Yes, if I could.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but the words stick in his throat; constrict his chest; cloud his mind and refuse to come out. He’s not one for action, not when words said from a distance suffice, but Victor breaks all the rules Sherlock holds for himself and words won’t be enough, not this time.

Victor doesn’t move as Sherlock steps closer, doesn’t utter a word of protest when they are standing toe-to-toe, a mere sliver of space between them. His breath stutters, the smallest of hitches, and when Sherlock tilts his head Victor’s sigh ghosts across his face--partly resigned, mostly relieved. 

And then Sherlock presses his lips to Victor’s, slots their mouths together so that Victor’s bottom lip is caught between both of his own. The unfamiliar beard rasps along his upper lip; the familiar smooth warmth of Victor’s mouth transports him a decade in the past. Victor smells of spice and tastes of rain, and after a moment he gives the smallest of thrusts with his chin, pressing back against Sherlock’s mouth, responding to the touch. 

It is gentle and chaste, and over too quickly. Victor pulls back first, but not much. They are still breathing the same air--coffee on Victor’s breath, tea on Sherlock’s--and Sherlock drags a tongue across his bottom lip, tasting Victor, feeling the lingering sting of the beard. They breathe once, twice, breaths far too quick as anticipation crackles through the air. Sherlock doesn’t draw away, and after a moment makes the mistake of meeting Victor’s eyes.

This time, Victor is the one who closes in. 

Sherlock’s back is against the wall and Victor’s fingers are on the buttons of his shirt. He catches Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth and blood begins to pound in Sherlock’s ears. It intensifies to a roar the moment their shirts are gone and they are skin-to-skin, grappling with belts and pressed so tightly together that for a wild moment Sherlock fears they will meld into one.

And then Victor’s mouth is hot on the pulse-point of his neck and Victor’s hands are tight on his hips, and Sherlock is lost. 

 

Hours later, it is that strange time of the night where a chill has descended upon the room and even the nocturnal animals outside have quieted their calls. 

Sherlock is neither asleep nor fully awake at this odd hour. He rests on his back in Victor’s bed, one hand on his stomach and the other on the pillow near his face. Beside him, Victor is on his side, one arm folded under his head and the other draped across Sherlock’s chest. His eyes are closed but, judging from his breathing, he isn’t asleep.

An owl gives a long, lonely cry. Sherlock cracks open an eye and sweeps his gaze across the room. For a while, he watches the shadows slowly advance and retreat on the ceiling as the moon marches across the sky. 

Beside him, Victor sighs deeply and rolls fully onto his stomach, shoving his arms under his pillow. He is lying in a patch of moonlight, silver and eerie, and the chain around his neck glints. Sherlock works his fingers under it, sliding along the chain until he comes to the pendant.

_ Wherever fortune guides my steps, however long the way, may the patron saint of travelers watch over me each day. _

“After everything that’s happened...” Sherlock trails off, reading again the words on the back of the pendant he had committed to memory long ago. Victor plucks the pendant gently from his hand and lets it fall back into place. “I will never understand your God.”

“That’s not quite true. It’s the fact that I have one at all that astounds you,” Victor corrects. He opens his eyes and pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning in for a kiss. Sherlock pushes his fingers through Victor’s hair. The kiss crosses the threshold between chaste and heated with a jolt that sparks just behind Sherlock’s navel, and when he next becomes aware of himself Victor is exploring his neck.

But it’s too much stimulation in too short a time, too many sensations that Sherlock can’t process all at once, and he puts a hand on Victor’s chest. Victor pulls back at once, but Sherlock twists a finger into the chain around his neck, preventing him from going far.

“This God of yours -” Sherlock starts, brushing a thumb over the pendant. Victor silences him with a finger on his lips.

“I may have been the Catholic who went to Mass and then went home to bugger his boyfriend,” he says with a self-deprecating smile, “but even I have some hang-ups, Sherlock. Can we leave God out of the bed tonight?”

Sherlock snorts and reaches for the discarded bottle of lube. He then slides his hand under the sheet and drags his fingertips up Victor’s cock, which gives a twitch of interest. 

“If you insist.” 

Victor sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, his cock quickly growing heavy in Sherlock’s hand. 

“I... rather think I do, yes.” 

Victor stretches out on the mattress again, letting one arm fall on the pillow above his head. He rests his other hand on Sherlock’s bicep, caressing a patch of skin with his thumb. His eyelids flutter and he gives a lazy smile as Sherlock finally strikes up a steady rhythm with his strokes. He’s careful not to return the favour and Sherlock feels a rush of warmth in his chest. Four years of separation and still Victor could tell--without even a verbal cue--when Sherlock had no desire to be touched. 

“You’ve not had anyone since my death.”

Sherlock stills his hand and Victor lets out a huff of disbelieving laughter.

“Oh, God, I didn’t just say that. Not that your skills have suffered for it, I should add,” he says quickly.

“I should think not,” Sherlock says with a smirk. He resumes stroking Victor lazily, from base to tip, where he swirls his thumb around the head of Victor’s cock. Victor lifts his hips, pushing into the wet heat of Sherlock’s slick palm.

“You’re correct, however,” Sherlock says. He lowers his head to Victor’s neck, teases with teeth and tongue the patch of flesh just beneath Victor’s left ear.

“Why?”

“I had no desire to,” Sherlock murmurs against the side of Victor’s neck. “Not when it wasn’t you.”

He lifts his head to kiss Victor properly. Victor tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. His strokes remain steady and Victor jerks his hips, seeking more friction and tighter heat. Sherlock loosens his grip in response, and Victor sighs against his mouth.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters darkly. Sherlock pulls back. With his free hand, he smooths the sweat-damp hair off Victor’s forehead.

“And you’re bloody gorgeous,” Sherlock murmurs, “when you’re like this.”

He half-leans over Victor, supporting himself with an elbow shoved into the mattress, and takes one of Victor’s nipples into his mouth, teasing it with grazing teeth until it hardens into a tight nub. Victor grunts and arches his back. Sherlock chuckles and lays his free hand against Victor’s side, pressing his fingers into the valleys between Victor’s ribs.

Victor jerks back with a strangled noise and pushes Sherlock’s hand away. Sherlock’s head snaps up and they stare at one another in stunned silence for a moment.

“You aren’t -” Sherlock breaks off; feels a smirk crawl across his mouth. “You aren’t _still_ -”

“Shut up,” Victor pants, attempting a glare.

“World-class mathematician, computer scientist, and assassin,” Sherlock teases, relocating his hand to Victor’s hip, “and it’s _tickling_ that brings you to your knees.”

Victor rolls his eyes. He reaches out and brushes a finger across Sherlock’s lips.

“If that mouth of yours is still anything like I remember,” he says in a low voice, “then I daresay that there are more effective ways of... bringing me to my knees.”

And though it’s been years, Sherlock is able to take him in one go, relaxing the muscles of his throat and swallowing Victor to the hilt. When Victor comes, he crashes through his orgasm as though he wasn’t expecting it, letting out a startled, _“Oh, dear God,”_ while Sherlock sucks him dry.  

Sherlock pulls away while Victor shudders through the aftershocks, kisses his shoulder and waits for coherency to return to him.

“You sure I can’t...” Victor offers tentatively after a few minutes, still somewhat breathless. He brushes his knuckles lightly along Sherlock’s half-hard cock. Sherlock catches his hand and slides their fingers together.

“Not this time.” 

Sherlock kisses Victor’s fingers and then releases him. He gathers the blanket they kicked off the bed hours ago and settles down next to Victor once again. Victor’s breathing is slowing, and within minutes he’s nearly asleep.  Sherlock cannot relax nearly so easily, and as the spell of the past few hours begins to wear off, the chill of night closes in again and the full weight of what they have done settles heavily on his mind.

“Damn it all, Victor,” Sherlock mutters. “We can’t get back into this.”

For a moment, there is silence.

“Yes,” Victor breathes at last. “I know.”

As it is, Victor occupies more of Sherlock’s hard drive than he should. He will spur Sherlock on; the mere thought of him will drive Sherlock to fight longer, harder, _better_ than he normally would. But he will also distract, if their days at school are anything to go by, when the simple sight of Victor dragging a hand through his hair would cause Sherlock’s thoughts to derail for minutes on end.

No, he cannot afford to be distracted on this mission, not when so much is at stake. He cannot toss aside the lives that are depending on his success, not when he’s come this far already. 

And on top of that, Sherlock’s still not entirely sure that Victor is telling him everything. 

The trouble is, this version of the story at least makes some sense. Mycroft would put country before family, of course he would. And Victor would be misguided--and self-sacrificing--enough to believe that staying away was the best way to keep Sherlock, and the country, safe. 

But the fact remains that, truthful or not, Sherlock has always trusted Victor, and he does so even now. And there are no words for how much he’s missed this, even though it shouldn’t--it _can’t_ \--happen again.

Victor falls asleep finally with his nose pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder and a hand splayed flat on Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock runs his fingers, once, through Victor’s hair, and is asleep not long after.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Elfbert, whose suggestion led to the first scene in this chapter. Isadora Persano is taken from the BBC’s _Science of Deduction_ website; the details of her case belong to me.

Greg likes to work with his hands.

He finds that there is something base and reaffirming about making something from nothing. And there’s a certain amount of pride to be found in fixing something that someone else had deemed hopeless. He’s not an expert, by any means--wouldn’t even afford himself the title of _amateur_ \--but he can hold his own. He once fixed a leaky sink for Sally Donovan and has performed a number of small services for Martha Hudson, most of which were actually the result of one of Sherlock’s experiments gone awry in the flat upstairs. 

And he’s seen far more of 221B than its inhabitants, he’d wager, because in the months after Sherlock and John moved in it quickly became apparent that the previous residents had been more than neglectful of the place. Greg had done some light carpentry for Sherlock when he was still living at Montague Street, and his first trip to Baker Street had told him--even though he was distracted at the time by the Pink Lady--that this new flat would need more than just a little help.

“Christ, mate, do you realise what you’ve got yourself into, here?” Greg had asked Sherlock the first weekend after the serial suicides had been solved, having popped ‘round to 221B with a cold case (though, really, he’d only been wanting to check in on Sherlock and his... intriguing new flatmate). The molding around the doorways was sagging, the windows looked about ready to fall out of the main room’s walls, and John’s room upstairs had a questionable patch of mold on the ceiling. 

It had taken Greg the better part of six months to get the place into a shape that he deemed satisfactory, aided by Sherlock (who was surprisingly competent at it, when he put his mind to it). And though they’d had some minor issues over the past eighteen months--more due to Sherlock than anything else--Greg hadn’t needed to perform any maintenance on Baker Street in close to a year. 

That is, until now. 

Two shelves in the kitchen had given way in the night, jerking both John and Greg out of sleep and sending John reaching for his gun. But the only casualties were half a dozen mugs and various mis-matched ceramic plates John had inherited one Christmas from his mother, and John had muttered something about calling a carpenter after work that evening. 

But Greg had arrived home first, and in the light of day he can see now that the damage isn’t anything insurmountable. In all honesty, it takes him longer to sweep up the shattered plates and mugs and clear the floor of any lingering shards than it does to put up the shelves once again. 

He’s just finishing reinforcing the second shelf when John arrives home.

“You didn’t have to do that,” John says when he comes into the kitchen, but there’s a pleased smile on his face nonetheless. Greg rolls his eyes. 

“I spent all last summer rewiring this place; I think I can handle putting up a couple of shelves.” Greg reaches for a rag. He wipes off his hands and the thin sheet of sweat on his forehead. 221B is always too warm in the summer and too cold in the winter, and has a hard time finding a delicate balance between the two during the other seasons. “What do you think?”

John drags his eyes from Greg’s toes to his sweat-damp hair, and the smile melts into a smirk. He closes the distance between them and hooks his fingers into the belt loops on Greg’s jeans, tugging him close. 

“I like it,” he says, and he’s not even looking at the shelves. His smirk turns mischievous. “Remind me to break things a little more often in this flat.”

“If this is the response - _unf!_ \- that I get... Gladly.”

\----

They spend several days meandering through Europe on their way to Cairo, which is where they will catch their flight to South Africa.

Sherlock is wary of air travel after Greece. It is a mode of transportation so highly scrutinized and regulated that he fears their chances of discovery are greater, even with Mycroft’s money and the identities he provided them. It is because of this--not entirely unfounded--paranoia that their route to South Africa is less than direct. They travel by bus through Switzerland; in Italy, France, and Portugal, they use primarily trains. 

They pass a night on the island of Crete ahead of the final leg of their journey to Egypt. Summer on the island is glorious and warm, with the sun hanging in the sky eleven hours out of twenty-four and temperatures reaching twenty-six more often than not. Victor, who thrives in the heat, comes alive under the sun’s harsh gaze. Sherlock, who breaks a sweat the moment the temperature breaches twenty, sucks in a lungful of too-hot air and immediately suggests that they find shelter for the night. 

They have strayed too close to the land where they were nearly found out, and Sherlock is wary of this. Victor is equally uneasy, which is a relief, and he is the one who suggests they spend the night somewhere off the grid. 

“This is probably the best weather we’ll see for a while,” he reasons. “We may as well take advantage of it. There are worse times to be outside than mid-summer on Crete.”

Sherlock is inclined to agree, and they find an abandoned church in Chania that will afford them at least some shelter for a few hours. They bed down in the back of the sanctuary, throwing down jackets and bits of clothing in an effort to provide a cushion between them and the unforgiving floorboards. 

The church is littered with fallen bits of wood, mostly from the questionable ceiling. Other detritus is scattered across the once-pristine floor, blown in from the innumerable storms over the years that have battered the structure. Looters took care of the rest, carrying away chairs and pews until the inside of the church is nearly gutted; a shell of its former glory. It appears to have been an unspoken agreement not to touch certain sacred objects, however. A cross hangs on the opposite wall, glinting in the dim light from the fading sun, its precious metal largely untarnished. 

They speak little and sleep less. At different, broken moments of his restless sleep Sherlock finds himself staring at the gaping ceiling; with his nose pressed against the gritty floor; and, at some unclear hour of the morning, gazing at Victor’s silhouette. He finds he is unable to look away. 

The sex was a one-off that became a three-off, and then a five-off.  By this point, Sherlock has lost count of their encounters and decides that it’s definitely become routine. Not only that, but it’s a routine they are finding difficult to break, even though they swear each time will be the last one.

Victor’s not asleep, but rather he is idly whittling a piece of wood with his pocket knife. Sherlock isn’t sure if he can even remember seeing Victor sleeping at all this night. His eyes are bright in the faint light of the moon, alert and clear while Sherlock feels muddled and uncertain with lingering sleep.

Slivers of wood have fallen onto Victor’s stomach and Sherlock, unable to help himself, reaches out to brush them off. His hand lingers for a beat longer than is considered appropriate, and he feels the taut lines of Victor’s torso even through his layers of clothing. Victor’s eyes flick to him but he says nothing. He neither responds to the touch nor reprimands Sherlock for it, and after a moment Sherlock draws away.

He stretches out once again next to Victor and folds his hands behind his head. The belt of the Milky Way is visible through the holes in the rotting roof of the church and Sherlock searches the stars for some moments, trying to pick out a familiar point of light. But all relevant information about the solar system he deleted long ago, much to Lestrade’s dismay. All that remains now is the thought that Lestrade would have very much enjoyed this view, given how often he complained about London’s light pollution blocking the stars each night.

Sherlock pushes the thought from his mind. He doesn’t want to think about Lestrade right now, nor John, nor even London.

It doesn’t hurt if he isn’t thinking about it.

“How’d that case turn out?”

Sherlock turns his head to look at Victor, who is still whittling with his knife.

“Hmm?”

“The case you were working on before I died. Isabella someone.”

“Isabella Marie. Her real name turned out to be Isadora Persano,” Sherlock says, remembering the twenty-two-year-old who had showed up at his flat one morning with no idea who she was or where she had come from. Her only earthly possessions had been the blue dress she had been wearing at the time and a silver cross around her neck. “I was able to track down a grandmother six months after you died. Isadora was her youngest grandchild, and the only family she had left. Parents, siblings... they had all been killed in an accident years before.”

“Unrelated to her amnesia?”

Sherlock nods.

“Did you ever find out what caused the memory loss, then?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“I would have,” he says, feeling a pang of frustration even though four years have passed since that case. “But she decided against it once I uncovered her origins. She was... content with that.”

“You wouldn’t have been.”

“Neither would you.” Sherlock drapes an arm over his eyes, blocking out the moonlight that streams through the cracks in the walls. “The bullet wound.”

“Hmm?”

“You asked a question. My turn. How did you get the bullet wound?”

Victor blows out a harsh breath between his teeth.

“I was in South Ossetia,” he says finally, his voice distant as he remembers. “About... Well, it was almost exactly three years ago now.”

Sherlock lifts his arm and stares at Victor incredulously.

“Don’t tell me _you_ were responsible for that war.”

Victor flashes him a mischievous grin and Sherlock thumps him on the shoulder.

“No, of course not, it just sounds more dramatic when I put it that way,” he says, stifling a chuckle. “No, actually, it turns out that I simply have terrible timing. I was on my way home from a mission. I was just passing through. Nearly got mugged for my troubles. The war happened in the background; I wasn’t anywhere near it.”

“Nearly got _killed_ for your troubles,” Sherlock corrects, because that wound should have been mortal. Victor shrugs.

“You think that’s bad, you should see my attacker.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You broke the first two fingers on your right hand... two years ago?”

Sherlock nods.

“It’s almost as banal as your story,” he mutters. “I was crossing a street. Nearly got hit by a car. Someone pushed me out of the way, and I landed badly. Tell me about the meat cleaver.”

Victor pushes himself up on his elbows.

“Well, now, that’s actually a little more interesting. I was in Mexico a while back...”

They pass nearly an hour in this manner. Every mark, every scar is a story in and of itself. But nearly as much passes unsaid between them as is spoken. Sherlock can’t speak of John, nor of the indignity of the final few months of his life. Victor is equally quiet about the year following his death. 

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, doesn’t have near the number of injuries that Victor does, and he runs out of stories to tell long before Victor. 

“I wonder if Mycroft truly knew what he was getting into when he recruited you,” Sherlock says dryly at one point. “You must be the most accident-prone agent on his staff.”

Victor snorts. 

“And you only saw the front.”

He sits up suddenly, shedding his jacket in one swift movement. He turns his back to Sherlock and hikes up his t-shirt to his shoulders.

Sherlock blinks in surprise at the sight that meets his eyes. Scars crisscross Victor’s back, some following the contours of his ribs while others are etched haphazardly into the skin. Sherlock reaches out a hand and pauses bare centimeters from Victor’s skin, palm hovering over the cruel lines, as though he can still feel the heat rising from the wounds. 

“Go on,” Victor says, his voice hushed. “They’re ancient, Sher, they don’t hurt.”

Sherlock traces each line with his fingertips; tries to read from the jagged crests the story of how each one came to be. But he is too close to this, too close to Victor, and there are too many emotions that interfere with his attempts at observation. 

“They’re all from one event,” Victor supplies quietly. His voice is passionless. “I was captured in Turkey about three years ago. I asked too many questions, and wasn’t nearly discreet enough about it.”

“They tortured you.”

“They questioned me,” Victor corrects, never one to admit that he had been a victim. 

Sherlock tries to blink back images of Victor under a lash; Victor, torn and bleeding, his reserves run low and his mind at the breaking point. He’s rarely ever seen Victor as anything less than in complete control of himself, both his mind and his body. He cannot imagine, doesn’t _want_ to imagine, a situation where that isn’t true. 

“How did you get away?”

Victor snorts.

“Amateurs,” he mutters, and Sherlock does not contradict him even though the efficiency of the wounds tells him otherwise. “They made the mistake of believing their bonds were enough to hold me and turned their backs. I broke my wrist and got a hand free. It was all I needed.”

Victor shifts, as though to pull his shirt down again, but Sherlock stops him. He brushes a hand over Victor’s left shoulder blade. The bare, unmarked flesh there is alien beneath his fingertips, even though it doesn't truly feel any different.

“Except for this one,” he says quietly. “This wasn’t part of that event. When did you get rid of it?”

“Almost as soon as I got out of the hospital,” Victor answers, equally soft. There’s a wistful quality to his voice.

He’d had a tattoo on that shoulder blade since university, that of an elegant hawk captured in mid-flight. It had reminded him of his grandfather, he’d said, and never elaborated. Sherlock has always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Victor would have needed to be rid of the tattoo in order to properly assume this new life. He could not have had any identifying mark on his body.

Still, to be faced with it in this manner... Sherlock feels a twinge of regret. He remembers idly tracing the outline of the hawk’s wings in the middle of the night, beams of silvery moonlight playing off the hard muscles of Victor’s back while he slumbered.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can think to say.

Victor pulls his shirt down and stretches out again on the floor.

“I’m not,” he says briskly. “It was necessary. So long as my identity remained unknown, I could complete my jobs and keep you safe. I don’t regret that at all.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to that, and so says nothing at all. And when he next opens his eyes, morning has come.

Victor is awake and staring at the ceiling, an arm flung across his forehead while his other rests on his stomach. He has a leg bent at the knee and he’s tapping out a nonsense rhythm on his sternum. He has always been a restless sleeper, especially when bedding down in an unfamiliar place, and Sherlock would not be surprised if he has been awake this entire time.

Grey light is beginning to seep into the church, washing out the silvery moonlight and chasing away the dark as dawn approaches. Victor’s features are soft in this early-morning light. The lines on his face are nearly invisible, and his dyed hair appears dark once again. 

Victor looks over, as though he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, and gives a gentle smile.

“Awake, are we?” he says softly. “Hello.”

Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows, leans over, and presses his lips to Victor’s. 

Victor’s lips are cool but his mouth is warm, and when he finally parts his lips in response to the probing swipes from Sherlock’s tongue, he brings a hand to rest gently on the back of Sherlock’s neck, holding him there. Sherlock rests a hand on Victor’s stomach and Victor moves to cover it with his own. 

The kiss is gentle and aching all at once, and so deep it is as though they are trying to draw air from each other’s lungs. When Sherlock pulls away, it’s only because the arm supporting his weight is starting to give out. He doesn’t want this to end, not ever, and that thought is dizzying.

“I thought we weren’t getting back into this,” Victor says warily when Sherlock presses his face into Victor’s neck.

“I know what I said.”

And the look in Victor’s eyes when Sherlock draws away--a tentative, corrosive hope that dissolves the last of his reservations--tells Sherlock the truth that he’s known but not acknowledged since their first night together in Liechtenstein. 

This was always going to happen, them coming together like this. It had happened before--several times, in fact, in the early and tumultuous years of their relationship. Their separations had always been temporary; they had always fallen back together again, each caught in the gravitational well of the other.

There will be no going back from this. 

Sherlock leans in and kisses Victor again.


	10. Chapter 10

Greg comes home from the Yard one night, pristine white shirt smattered with blood that isn’t his own, and shakes his head before John can open his mouth to ask. He disappears immediately into the shower, which he then runs for an abnormal half an hour. He’s in the bedroom changing when his mobile goes off.

“John, can you get that?” he calls.   
  
“Where’s it coming from?” John asks, having narrowed the sound to the vicinity of Greg’s desk.   
  
“Jacket!”   
  
John pulls the ringing phone out of Greg’s coat and answers it.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Greg?”  
  
“Oh, no, Mrs Lestrade--er, Mary--um, he’s in the shower. I can - oi!” John starts as a cold hand touches the back of his neck and whips around. Greg quirks a puzzled eyebrow at him and holds out his hand. John shoves the mobile at him, mutters, “It’s your mum,” and makes his escape.  
  
Later, Greg finds him in the kitchen, working on his laptop while dinner finishes cooking.  
  
“So what was that all about?” he asks in amusement. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms, smirking at John.  
  
“Your mother’s terrifying, mate, don’t try to tell me she isn’t,” John says firmly, pointing a pen at Greg for emphasis.  
  
“You’re going to have to get over that before the ceremony.”  
  
“If they even come to it,” John mutters, suddenly bitter, because to say that Greg’s mother had been less-than-pleased about her son’s divorce and his new lover would be putting it lightly. The circumstances of the divorce weren’t ideal, John will be the first to admit that, but he still feels a stab of resentment toward Mary Lestrade for holding it against her son.  
  
The words are out of John’s mouth before he realizes he’s said them aloud. He feels the blood rush from his face.  
  
“Oh, fuck, Greg,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”  
  
In the moment before he can mask his expression, Greg looks as though he’s been slapped. He covers it quickly, and when he meets John’s eyes, his smile is resigned.  
  
“Don’t,” he says softly. “You’re right. _If_ they come. We, uh... we might luck out.”  
  
“No. For God’s sake, don’t say that. That’s not _luck_. I hope they come. Really.”  
  
Greg swallows hard.  
  
“So do I,” he says quietly. And then a brief smile touches his lips. “Mostly because you’ll have to deal with my mother micromanaging every moment of that weekend. Not to mention the fact that they’ll probably be staying with me. There’s no escaping the in-laws, John.”  
  
John groans and drops his head in his hands.  
  
“Whose bloody idea was this whole _marriage_ thing, anyway?”  
  
Greg laughs and comes to stand behind him, placing his hands lightly on John’s shoulders.  
  
“You were the one who brought it up, if I remember correctly.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you were the one who proposed. I take it back; I’m _not_ marrying you.”  
  
Greg snorts and squeezes his shoulders.  
  
“Nice try, Johnny.”  
  
He ducks his head for a kiss and then goes to check on dinner.  
  
\----

Sherlock and Victor finally arrive in Cairo one morning just as the hot equatorial sun rises above the buildings and starts to bake the dry land.   
  
The predominant foreign languages of Egypt are all ones they are fluent in, and so arranging travel to South Africa goes easier than Victor had been envisioning. They are able to secure a flight for two days from now, and Sherlock decides that is satisfactory.   
  
They find a small room that will accommodate them as they wait for their flight, so inexpensive that it feels almost inaccurate to even call it _cheap_ , but they were able to pay in cash and no one has asked them any questions. Likely, they were forgotten the moment they left the room.   
  
Victor can hope, at least.  
  
The bustling street outside the mudbrick building is loud and the air inside is stifling. There is a mattress on the floor alongside a battered sofa, and a fan languidly stirs the thick air. Sheets cover the windows, and they glow a sickly yellow in the blazing sunlight. 

“I came here once, years ago,” Victor says later that morning as they stroll through a street marketplace. Tourists and locals alike swarm around them, and the street is bright with women in vivid dresses and men in light, pastel cotton shirts. As unbearable as the heat is, being outside is a far cry better than being in their room, where the air doesn’t move at all. “Father had some business here in the city. School wasn’t in session, so he brought me along.”

“I don’t remember this.”

“Mm, no, you wouldn’t. It was just before I left for university.” Victor is quiet a moment, remembering. “I think it was the last trip I took with him.”

Sherlock misinterprets his silence.

“Your father was an idiot,” he says quietly, voice full of contempt. Victor presses his elbow discreetly and then returns the hand to his pocket. 

“What’s past is past,” Victor says gently, because though it took him more years to accomplish than he would have liked, he has mostly come to terms with his estrangement from his father. Unfortunately, he struggled with it for much of the time that he and Sherlock were together, and it had led to many fallings out. “It’s all right. Despite what came after, the memories I have from that last trip are good.”

They dine in a café and linger there for as long as they can before returning to the unforgiving day. They avoid the tourist shops and financial district, whose buildings would provide them some shelter, because they are more likely to be monitored by cameras. They must remain under the radar as much as possible, difficult though it is in a bustling city like this one. 

It’s only after the sun has finally slipped below the horizon that they return to their rooms. Exhaustion weighs heavily on Victor as the sleepless night on Crete finally catches up to him. He strips down to a t-shirt and underwear and stretches out on the mattress. Sherlock kicks off his trousers and takes the sofa. They try not to share a bed if it can be helped, as there is no telling who might be watching them and one of the last things they need is to be discovered in bed together by the wrong eyes. 

When Victor wakes, it is an hour before dawn, and a sickly yellow light has permeated the room from the streetlamp outside, casting an eerie glow over everything in sight. And he finds that he isn’t alone on the mattress anymore, for when he stretches he accidentally brushes his knuckles against Sherlock’s jaw. 

“Oh, hello,” Victor murmurs. Sherlock blinks awake. 

“Time?” he whispers.   
  
“Five,” Victor answers. He rolls onto his side and shifts closer, until their foreheads are almost brushing and they are breathing sleep-sour air. Their noses bump; Sherlock doesn’t pull away. “Go back t’sleep.”   
  
They are so close that Victor’s last sentence is whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock wets his lips, tongue grazing Victor’s own, and a shiver goes down Victor’s spine. He tilts his head then, finally, sliding their mouths together and drawing Sherlock into a light kiss.   
  
“Morning, Will,” he says quietly, chancing a name that he hasn’t used in years. _William_ is Sherlock’s given name, passed down to him from his father and grandfather, but Sherlock hasn’t gone by it since he was a child. His mother let it slip one dinner that Victor shared with them years ago, and though Sherlock had scowled at its use by her, he has never once requested that Victor stop using it.   
  
There is a beat of silence--and then Victor is rewarded with a lightning-quick smile before Sherlock closes in again.  
  
Sherlock pushes Victor onto his back and rolls on top of him. He mouths over Victor’s Adam’s apple and down the length of his throat, dragging teeth across his collarbone before seeking out a proper kiss again. They draw away long enough to discard shorts before coming together again, cocks sliding against one another, heavy and leaking. Sherlock’s kisses are insistent, desperate, and Victor counters them with slow, probing swipes of his tongue. He curls a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck to hold him close and tries to slow him down, but Sherlock’s fingers are digging into his hips and Victor is bucking involuntarily up against the taut line of his stomach, his need matching Sherlock’s.  
  
He comes far sooner than he would have liked, spending himself between their stomachs, and Sherlock breaks their kiss. He buries his face in the crook of Victor’s neck, warm breaths panting across Victor’s collarbone, and continues to buck against his friend. Victor is reaching for his bag even before his brain has recovered from his climax, and when he comes back to himself he is holding a container of lube. He slicks up the fingers of his right hand and grabs Sherlock’s hip with his left, rolling their hips together, setting a steady rhythm that was broken by his orgasm.  
  
Victor runs his fingers along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and then pushes in deeper, circling Sherlock’s hole with the tip of his forefinger. Sherlock tries to push back against the intruding finger, but Victor stills him with a hand on his hip.  
  
“Easy,” he whispers, stroking the sensitive nerves, feeling Sherlock jerk and gasp against him. He then pushes the tip of one finger inside, easing past the tight ring of muscle. “ _Relax_.”  
  
He eases in the first finger, keeping up the rhythm of their hips all the while, and then withdraws. He adds more lube and then presses two fingers against Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock groans and sinks his teeth into Victor’s shoulder, trying to will his muscles to loosen and relax; to accept the intrusions. Victor scissors his fingers, working his way in, and Sherlock, impatient with Victor’s slow process, finally pushes back and sinks down on Victor’s hand.  
  
“ _Jesus_ ,” Victor hisses at the same time that Sherlock lets loose a sound that is a cross between a whimper and a whine. Victor crooks his fingers, grazing Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock snaps his hips in response, jaw going slack and eyelids fluttering.  
  
“Come on,” Victor whispers, arching up to capture Sherlock’s lips in a sloppy kiss. He wraps his free hand around Sherlock’s cock, pumping him, muttering against the bruised lips, “Come for me, _come on_ , let me see you... You’re gorgeous like this... Sher -”  
  
“ _God_ ,” Sherlock moans suddenly, coming in pulses, spilling over Victor’s hand and the mattress’s already-questionable sheets. Victor pumps him through to done and Sherlock finally collapses, his legs giving out, slumping next to Victor.  
  
“Forgot how much you loved having your arse played with,” Victor mutters, kissing Sherlock’s sweaty forehead, and his friend snorts.  
  
“Only when it’s you,” he croaks. “Fucking _hell_ , Victor...”  
  
“Tell you something, Will.” Victor pushes his nose into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in his sweat-worn scent. He presses his tongue to Sherlock’s pulse-point, relishing the shudder it elicits. “You’re fucking _gorgeous_ , you know that?”  
  
Sherlock nuzzles his shoulder and says nothing in response. Victor, heedless of the mess they’ve made, gathers Sherlock into his arms, holding him close until the younger man succumbs to sleep once more.  
  
 _ Christ _ , has he missed this.  
  
\-------------  
  
It’s rare anymore that Greg makes it home at a decent hour. Six days out of seven, he’s at the Yard well past nightfall. His limit appears to be midnight, and on more than one occasion John has woken to Greg sliding into bed behind him, settling a hand on his hip and nuzzling the back of his neck in greeting. Between that and John’s erratic schedule at the clinic, they have time for little more than a mumbled _hello_ most days.  
  
Which is why, one day in early autumn, John is surprised when he arrives back at Greg’s flat to find someone else already there.  
  
“Greg?” John drops his bag by the door. “Are you home?”  
  
“Yeah,” Greg calls back, and John locates him in their bedroom. He’s standing by the wardrobe, tugging off his work-worn shirt. He chucks it in favor of a near-threadbare t-shirt, so often worn that the logo on the front is no longer legible.  
  
“You’re home early.”  
  
“In a manner of speaking,” Greg says, and greets him with a kiss.   
  
“You’re going out again.”  
  
“Yeah,” Greg says with a grimace. “I’m going in again at nine. But I wanted to have dinner with you. Can’t remember the last time we saw one another.”  
  
“Last night,” John says, amused. “Between two and three.”  
  
“For a whole hour? That’s a new record.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.” John draws Greg in for another kiss, and then releases him to finish changing. “Oh, before I forget. Your mum called me.”  
  
“Oh? When?’  
  
“At work. Twice, before I had a chance to answer.”  
  
Greg grimaces.  
  
“Sorry, John. I’ll have a word with her about that.”  
  
“No,” John says, holding up his hand. “She hasn’t done anything wrong; she was just looking for you. You weren’t answering your phone.”  
  
“I was in a meeting most of the afternoon; didn’t even realise she’d called until after. I’m sorry she bothered you.”  
  
“She didn’t - Greg, what is going _on_? That’s the third time you’ve spoken to her this week, which is more than you’ve spoken in three _months_. And you’re--you’re absent. I’ve never seen you so scattered. So distracted.”  
  
 _ So emotionless _ is what John doesn’t say, but that’s true as well. Greg doesn’t react to things anymore, nothing beyond a faint smile that doesn’t touch his eyes or a grimace of irritation when something goes wrong. It’s as though he’s shut himself away, and John doesn’t know why.  
  
Greg stares at him for a long moment, and then finishes undressing. He discards his trousers and puts on jeans, and finally braces his hands on his hips, staring at the floor for a beat before lifting his eyes to John’s once again.  
  
“My father has cancer,” he says flatly. John stares at him, stunned.

_ “What?” _

“We’ve known for a few months now. The calls I keep getting from mum are updates. I’m sorry she bothered you at work; I’m usually better about answering them.”   
  
“Is it...?”   
  
“Bad? Yes. But he’s in treatment at the moment. Can’t tell if it’s helping yet, but he’s not getting any worse, either.”   
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Greg -”  
  
“I don’t _know_ , John!” he bursts out. He sighs and rocks back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets and dropping his gaze to the floor. When he continues, his voice is soft. “Maybe... I dunno, maybe I thought it’d just... go away if I ignored it a while. Doesn’t, of course, don’t know why I thought that. And then... I needed to be there for my sister, and my mum. I needed to be there for Dad. He’s got treatments and appointments, and Mum can’t handle it all on her own. And at the end of the day.... the last thing I needed was your pity. Sympathy, sorry. I just needed _something_ to be normal.”  
  
“Oh, Greg -”  
  
“See?” Greg points a finger at him. “That’s what I mean. That’s what I _don’t_ need, John. Stop it. Please.”  
  
“Let me help you. That’s all I want.”  
  
Greg’s shoulders slump, and he goes from defensive to guilty in a matter of seconds.  
  
“You have been helping,” he whispers. He walks over to John and takes his hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing John’s knuckles. “Just by being you. Drop it? Please.”  
  
John sighs, knowing that he’s going to give in; knowing that he couldn’t deny Greg anything.  
  
“Just promise me one thing,” he says at last. “If you need anything--no, let me _finish_ , Greg--if you need anything, you _tell_ me, okay? If your mum needs anything, or your dad, or your sister... _we_ will be there for them. Both of us, together. Other than that, you just do what you need to do, okay? And I’ll stay out of it.”  
  
Greg considers him a moment and then gives a tight nod.  
  
“Right.” John grips his elbow. “Good. Now... you were saying something about dinner?”  
  
\----  
  
Sherlock and Victor arrive in Johannesburg at the tail-end of the southern hemisphere’s winter.

The grey of winter has given way to a vivid spectrum of colour as flowers begin to bloom on the plains, and the spring days are breathtaking.   
  
“We need to be more discreet this time,” Sherlock says. They’re standing in the spacious living room of their rented flat, which isn’t far from the city centre. “We raised someone’s suspicions in Greece, that much is obvious.”   
  
“Do you think they suspect it’s you?” Victor peels aside the curtain; looks down on the street below, which is full to bursting.   
  
“Unlikely. We’ve been careful. Likely, all they know is that someone has been questioning Moriarty’s clients. He’s made innumerable enemies over the years; I don’t think they would look at two dead men until it’s a last resort.”  
  
“Even so,” Victor says, “we should lay low for a while.”  
  
“I _need_ this evidence.”  
  
“And you’ll get it.” Victor turns from the window. “But haste will only end in disaster; you _know_ that. Wait a while before you make contact.”  
  
They are brothers again here in South Africa. Mycroft’s money, coupled with the funds Victor earned in Greece, should finance them for the entirety of their stay here. Sherlock hopes it will only be a few days, and plans on spending no more than a month.  
  
They spend their days researching and nights trying to track down the member of the network Sherlock had learned about in Liechtenstein, but they make no direct contact. After the scare in Greece, they’re only going to get one shot at this, and they need to choose the right time.  
  
And then, one night, Sherlock turns to Victor and says, “Let’s go for a walk.”  
  
Victor blinks. He hadn’t thought that they were going to be doing any tracking tonight. “Yeah, right. Want me to bring a gun?”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I said a _walk_ , Victor.”  
  
“Just... a walk?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sherlock will have an ulterior motive, of that Victor is sure, but he’s not being forthcoming and Victor is in no mood to pry. And so they set out into the humid night, shirtsleeves rolled up past their elbows, looking for all the world as if they’ve just stepped out for a drink after leaving the office.  
  
And stop they do, about half an hour after wandering through the night-time rush on the bustling streets. Sherlock tugs on Victor’s elbow and then ducks into a nearby establishment.  
  
“I’m sorry, it’s necessary,” Sherlock murmurs to him and orders water for Victor before he can reply. He presses the glass into Victor’s hand and says, “Forgive me.”  
  
Victor rolls his eyes, but accepts the glass and nods in quiet thanks. “Don’t. We do what we have to do to get the job done.”  
  
Sherlock nods, brisk, and spins away, breezing over to a table and beckoning Victor to join him. Victor sips his water and watches as Sherlock’s one drink turns into two, and then three; watches in bemusement as Sherlock makes casual conversation with everyone sitting around them.  
  
Sherlock’s disguises are in his face and voice. He very rarely relies on elaborate outfits when playing a part. He can be convincing as any number of people while wearing only jeans a plain cotton tee--or, in tonight’s case, in a plain button-down and dark trousers. He is so convincing, in fact, that Victor sometimes wonders if he’s ever seen the true Sherlock; wonders if the Sherlock he knows is yet another  façade .  
  
If that’s the case, though, it’s a  façade only Victor’s ever been privileged enough to see, and he supposes that is as close to _true_ as anything.  
  
They leave in the early hours of the morning, long after midnight has come and gone. Sherlock, though he rarely drinks, holds his alcohol fairly well. If anything, it turns him into someone who is easily cheered, and he spends the majority of the walk back to their flat with an amused smile plastered on his face.  
  
“Did you know,” Sherlock says suddenly, “that Johannesburg is the largest city in South Africa?”  
  
“I suspected as much.”  
  
“Mm. Did you _also_ know that it’s the largest city in the world that’s not situated on a waterway or body of water?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“There’s also gold and diamond trade here on a massive scale, due to the Witwat - Witwaters -”  
  
“The Witwatersrand?” Victor chuckles. Sherlock tries to glare at him and fails.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
There are few people on the street right now, and it’s too dark to make out anything more than silhouettes. Victor takes advantage of the darkness and slides his fingers through Sherlock’s, squeezing his hand, once, before releasing him. He can feel Sherlock grin in response.  
  
They round a corner, cutting down an alleyway that is blissfully empty. Victor takes the opportunity to link arms with his slightly-swaying friend; Sherlock, in one swift movement, crowds Victor up against a wall and kisses him breathless.  
  
“Don’t try to distract me,” Victor half-heartedly as Sherlock unbuttons the top two buttons on his shirt and pushes his hand inside, fingertips grazing a nipple. “You – _ah_ – you spoke with our contact tonight, didn’t you?”  
  
“He was sitting at the table to our left,” Sherlock says, and moves his attentions to Victor’s neck. It takes Victor some moments to picture the man, and he can’t recall anything remarkable about the conversation.  
  
“You - _mmf_ \- you didn’t tell me.” Victor knows he should feel annoyed at being kept in the dark, but Sherlock’s started teasing a patch of skin just behind his ear with his teeth, and Victor’s quickly losing the ability to form coherent thoughts.  
  
“It was a long shot,” Sherlock murmurs against his skin. “But I got lucky.”  
  
“And?”  
  
Sudden footsteps sound at the beginning of the alley, and they jump apart.  
  
“Go,” Sherlock says, suddenly alert, and they do, slightly quicker than they normally would and without looking back. The footsteps follow as they round the corner. “How many?”  
  
“Three. And male, most likely, from the silhouettes,” Victor answers immediately, picking out the three distinct treads. They walk faster; the three men behind them do so as well. “Run?”  
  
“Run,” Sherlock agrees, and they break into a sprint, bolting up the street and zig-zagging between buildings, taking the long way back to their flat. The three men give up the pursuit after less than five minutes, but Sherlock and Victor keep running, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol and the dizzying high of the chase. They burst through the door of their flat and Victor’s scarcely shut it behind him before Sherlock is upon him, sealing their mouths together and pressing him against the wall.  
  
They don’t make it to the bedroom that first time; barely make it out of their trousers, even, before Sherlock takes them both in hand and sends them both crashing over the edge with a few quick strokes. They stumble over to the sofa, shedding the remainder of their clothes along the way, and Victor shoves Sherlock onto it before sinking down between his knees. Sherlock comes in pulses that time, one hand twisted in Victor’s hair and the other gripping the sofa for purchase while Victor sucks him dry.  
  
It’s only then that they finally move to the bedroom, where Victor lays Sherlock out flat and climbs on top of him, kissing and fingering and stroking until Sherlock is fisting the sheets and begging him to _Get on with it, already!_ Victor enters him with aching slowness and sets a languid pace, hitting Sherlock’s prostate with each snap of his hips and bringing him to completion swiftly. Sherlock arches up and captures Victor’s lips in a sloppy kiss, swallowing Victor’s groan as he finds his own climax and then collapses, drained, on top of Sherlock.  
  
By now, the thin light of dawn is beginning to filter through the windows, and there is little point in trying to sleep tonight.  
  
“I don’t suppose we were found out,” Victor comments finally. His head is full of cotton and his mouth is dry, but he forces the words out anyway. Beside him, Sherlock’s eyes are closed but he isn’t asleep.  
  
“No,” he murmurs. “Petty thieves.”  
  
“And your contact?”  
  
“He never even met Moriarty,” Sherlock says in irritation, and Victor realises now why Sherlock wasn’t forthcoming with this information earlier in the night. The frustration of not finding evidence of Moriarty, or proof of Richard Brook’s fabrication, is beginning to take its toll on Sherlock. “But, thanks to him, I believe I have discovered what makes this branch of the network so vital.”  
  
“And what’s that?”  
  
Sherlock fixes Victor with a smile that’s more a baring of teeth than anything else.  
  
“Money. And where it’s being kept.”  
  
  
Twelve hours later, they are thousands of feet above the ground and climbing, bound for Europe once again.  
  
In Johannesburg, two office buildings burn. Thousands of pertinent documents are destroyed. Months of intelligence vanish in the blink of an eye, and years of careful financial planning are gone.  
  
One branch of Moran’s network is rendered useless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's given name being "William" is [common speculation](http://bakerstreet.wikia.com/wiki/Holmesian_Speculation) among Holmes scholars and is not my own invention.


	11. Chapter 11

John hears the racket long before he reaches Greg’s flat.

The music filters down the stairs, all three flights of them, and as John trudges upwards, his arms full, he hopes that it is coming from another person’s flat.

He knows that this isn’t the case. 

John pauses outside Greg’s door and sets down his burden. Then, after taking a moment to steel himself, he opens the door and bellows, “What the _hell_ is that?” to make himself heard above the din.

Greg is standing on a ladder, mending a patch of ceiling where a nail has started to poke through. He turns around, looking scandalized. “It’s _music_ , John!”

“I hate to tell you, mate, but that is _not_ music.”

“Not my fault you don’t have taste!” Greg says, but he turns down the radio anyway. He climbs down from the ladder and snags a towel, wiping his hands off and dabbing at his sweat-covered forehead. “I wasn’t expecting you ‘til later. Has something happened?”

John grins.

“Not exactly,” he says, and then disappears out onto the landing. He reappears with the small carrier in hand and sets it on the floor, releasing the hatch.

“Happy birthday, you prat,” he says fondly as the puppy slinks out of his cage, sniffs the carpet, and then makes a beeline for Greg. John knows of his lover’s fondness for animals and, though Greg won’t admit it, that the flat has been too quiet since Jasper died last year.

Greg sinks to the floor, and the puppy clambers delightedly into his lap.

“John,” he says finally, “you shouldn’t -”

“Shut up,” John says firmly, joining him, “and give him a name, yeah? I’ve been calling him ‘puppy’ for days, and I don’t think we want that to stick.”

Greg lifts the puppy up to eye-level. The dog gives a faint yelp and then licks his face enthusiastically.

“Charlie,” he decides firmly. John grins and gives the puppy an affectionate scratch behind the ears.

“Charlie it is, then.”

\----

Suspicious financial activity out of the company whose office buildings Sherlock and Victor burned down in South Africa leads them to Milan, and they set down temporary roots there as the early autumn wears on. 

Sherlock can see now, finally, why Mycroft was so insistent that Victor accompany him on this mission. Four years might have passed since their last day together, but it’s beginning to seem like only weeks. The shock of finding Victor alive has faded far sooner than Sherlock expected it to, and sometimes it seems only a distant memory; a fragment of a dream. 

He still feels the sharp sting now and again of those four years they were apart; that hasn’t disappeared completely. But the pain has numbed as their time together lengthened, and it has been further eased by the knowledge that Victor wouldn’t have stayed away unless absolutely necessary. It’s a conversation they’ll no doubt revisit in the future, but Sherlock is content with Victor’s answers for now. 

Even in the minutiae of their daily routines, it hardly seems as though they have been separated at all. Victor still typically rises before Sherlock, as he always had done in the years before his death. Sherlock, in turn, tends to stay awake for hours after Victor has fallen asleep. Victor still has an uncanny way of knowing what Sherlock is about to say before the words touch his lips, and Sherlock finishes Victor’s sentences for him far more often than not, which Victor attempts to find irritating but his amusement always betrays itself in his glinting eyes.

And on the rare nights when they share a bed, they are still subconsciously aware of one another. More often than not Sherlock wakes to find Victor’s frame curled around his own, sheltering him even in sleep. Even if they begin a night on opposite sides of the mattress, by morning they are slotted together, legs entangled and arms supporting one another.

They fit like cogs in a gear, and work together just as seamlessly. 

And as the early autumn fades into September and October, Sherlock has difficulty remembering a time when it wasn’t like this. 

 

 

Sherlock has picked out, from the financial records they scanned prior to destroying the two buildings in Johannesburg, two members of Moran’s network who are stationed here in Milan. They appear to be the highest-ranking members in the city, and for the first time in weeks excitement sparks in his chest. Up until now, he and Victor have had contact only with one-time clients or low-ranking members in the network, and none of them have been of any use. This time, however, Sherlock hopes that things will be different. 

Perhaps, this time, they will finally uncover the evidence they need to bring back Moriarty.

Sherlock spends his weeks researching, trying to track down the precise locations of the two men while Victor again finds work. Sometimes he accompanies Sherlock out into the city, where they don a variety of disguises and follow locals who might be the men they’re looking for. Each time is a dead end, but they are not discouraged just yet. This is the closest they’ve come to actually feeling the pulse of a branch, and at this point the excitement of being so near their goal far outshines any doubt.

And when Sherlock finally finds their two targets, he spends two days tracking them before formulating a plan as to how they might be contacted. 

“What is it you’ve got there?”

Victor, back in their rooms after a long day at work and fresh from a shower, climbs nimbly into the armchair that Sherlock is seated on the floor in front of. He settles in the chair with his feet on either side of Sherlock’s thighs and leans forward, resting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders as he peers at the papers that are spread out on the floor. Sherlock has compiled, from various travel books, a makeshift map of the city, which he’s been marking up in red ink.

“I’ve found our men,” Sherlock says. Victor rubs the back of Sherlock’s neck absently with one hand, working out a knot of muscle, and Sherlock tips his head back until it is resting against Victor’s chest. 

“You found where they live?”

“Even better,” Sherlock says, pulling out his mobile and handing it to Victor. He has stored photographs of the two men on it, grainy images taken from security cameras but enough to give Victor an idea of what they’ll be dealing with. “James Carson and Charles Smidt, in the flesh.”

“Good Lord, that’s some good work,” Victor says, impressed. “And what exactly is it that makes them so vital to this branch, can you tell?”

“Money again,” Sherlock says with a shrug. “Or rather, the ability to move it without too many people noticing its loss. For all of Moriarty’s attempts to seem otherworldly, he still needed funds, and so does Moran now. They’re quite good at getting him what he needs.”

“Cut down the men, and the funds are gone.” Victor hands the phone back to Sherlock, who nods.

“Cut the funds, and this branch will die.”

\----

Greg starts making weekly trips to visit his parents.

His sister, simply because she lives much closer to them, has been the one so far to bear the majority of the burden of their father’s illness and their mother’s despair. A wife, and mother to two young girls, Alexandra has borne this duty with patience and care that frankly astounds John. But it shouldn’t, not really. She’s as stubborn as her brother and as frank as their mother, and there’s a quiet, unyielding strength that runs through all the Lestrades. Of all Greg’s relatives, Alexandra is John’s favourite, and she has been the most accepting of their relationship, despite the frankly messy dissolution of Greg’s marriage. 

Greg feels immensely guilty that his job has forced this situation upon his sister, and no amount of reassurances from John or Alexandra has eased his self-reproach. There are now stretches of days when John doesn’t see Greg at all, and while he doesn’t begrudge Greg his visits home for a moment, he can’t help but be concerned--and he wonders how long Greg will be able to bear up under the weight of it all before he collapses. 

John wishes he could make this awful situation easier on Greg, and has never felt quite so helpless in his life. 

He does what he can to help, though it feels like very little in comparison. He stays at Greg’s flat when he’s out of town and takes care of the puppy, and he will be available to talk whenever Greg finally feels like discussing the illness. Usually Greg will call him in the evenings, but they mostly talk of inconsequential things. The disease is never mentioned.

And then, one night, Greg calls just before midnight. John has been asleep for an hour already, and the phone startles him.

“Greg,” he rasps. “What is it?”

“I woke you,” is all Greg says. His voice sounds impossibly weary.

“It’s all right. What’s going on?”

Beside him in the bed, Charlie lets out an impatient bark. John sighs and scratches behind one of Charlie’s ears.

“Yes, I know, I’m on my mobile,” he mutters to the puppy, because Charlie has learned that when one of them is talking on the phone, it means that their attention has been drawn away from him. He’s not fond of that. “But I’m talking to your dad, so hush a moment.”

There is a beat of silence over the line.

“Is the dog in our bed?” Greg asks finally, sounding faintly amused. “And were you _talking_ to him?”

“This from the man who feeds Charlie from the table when he thinks I’m not looking,” John snorts. He lies back again; Charlie scrambles up onto his stomach and curls up into a ball. “Greg.”

The silence stretches on for so long this time that John fears he’s accidentally ended the call. But then, finally, Greg says, “They’re stopping treatment.”

John closes his eyes, because he knows what that means.

“How long?” he asks softly.

“A few weeks; perhaps a few months if he’s lucky.” Greg lets out a breath. “I don’t think he’s going to be lucky.”

John shakes his head. From what little specifics Greg’s told him about the cancer, he doesn’t think so, either. And he’s sorry, impossibly so, but Greg won’t appreciate hearing that. 

“What can I do?” he asks instead, and he can hear Greg hesitate. _“Name it_ , Greg. What can I do for you?”

“I’m going to stay here through the weekend,” Greg says at last. “Will you come? Alexandra has been asking about you, and the girls would love to see you again.”

_ I need you _ is the part that goes unspoken, and if it wasn’t the middle of the night, John would already be on his way.

“I’ll drive out first thing in the morning,” he says without missing a beat. “And I’ll bring Charlie. How’s that sound, champ?”

Charlie, who has already fallen asleep on John’s stomach, simply snores in response. But it elicits a huff of laughter from Greg, and John smiles faintly to himself.

“I’ll see you then,” Greg says. And then he adds, almost hesitantly, “I’ve missed you.”

“Same here. You take care of yourself, you hear? I’ll see you soon.”

John rings off and, after a restless hour, finally falls asleep again, Charlie still on his stomach and the empty space next to him in the bed feeling impossibly large.

\----

Sherlock and Victor plan to go to an establishment that Smidt and Carson frequent at least three evenings a week, and Sherlock intends to strike up a casual conversation with their two targets. Victor will be nearby, socializing and waiting for a signal, and when the three men leave, he will follow them out.

The two men can be disposed of quietly in a back alley or even elsewhere, depending on what ruse Sherlock uses to lure them out of the building. He has no intention of allowing them to live once he manages to discover where evidence of Moriarty might be found. He means to both devastate this branch and kill Richard Brook, and he means to do it _tonight_.

Sherlock inserts himself into the conversation rather quickly that evening, and with an ease that Victor himself has never been able to master.

Victor sits at the bar, keeping Sherlock in his line of sight. He orders water but drinks it like it’s liquor, and no one but the bartender can tell the difference. He makes idle conversation with those around him, nothing lasting, because there’s a reason they’re seated on the solitary stools and not at a table. He pretends to be invested in the game on the television sets, and waits for the signal.

It’s difficult to predict what direction a conversation will take, but Sherlock had been aiming for thirty minutes before making to leave the bar. An hour, at the most. Any longer than that, and the men might begin to be suspicious about his interest in them, and might guess that it doesn’t have to do with passing fascination.

Besides, Sherlock’s face is memorable enough as it is, even in the dim lighting of the bar. It’s best not to allow it to imprint itself too perfectly on their contacts’ minds in case something doesn’t go according to plan tonight.

But it’s not long before they reach the ninety-minute mark, and Sherlock has made no move to leave. The three men are still deep in conversation, and Sherlock hardly looks as though he’s in distress, but still worry begins to tug at the back of Victor’s mind. At two hours, their eyes happen to meet, but Sherlock’s betray nothing, and so Victor continues to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the fight breaks out.

Victor remains absolutely still when one of the contacts--Smidt, if he remembers correctly--pushes his chair back from the table and gets to his feet unsteadily. He’s at least six drinks in at this point, and the expression on his face is thunderous. Carson and Sherlock both rise, more slowly, but it’s clear from their stance that the two men are squaring off against Sherlock.

Victor’s hand twitches toward the gun, but he doesn’t move to draw it. From here, he can get two shots off without being seen, enough to effectively take down--if not kill--both men and give Sherlock a chance to get out. But Carson and Smidt aren’t supposed to see his face; aren’t supposed to know, even, that Sherlock has someone else here with him. It is too risky to make himself known, and he doesn’t want to reveal his presence unless it’s absolutely necessary. And so Victor waits as the bar clears uneasily, and listens as tense words are exchanged.

When Smidt upturns the table, smashing their drinks to the ground and sending shattered glass everywhere, Victor decides he’s had enough waiting.

“Excuse me,” he says, approaching the group and holding up a hand. He doesn’t look at Sherlock, hoping he can pass himself off as a bystander. “Is there a problem here?”

“Your friend asks too many questions,” Smidt spits.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Victor says mildly. Before the other man can reply, there is a shuffle behind them, and they all look toward the bar. The bartender has returned, and he’s holding a phone.

“Right,” he says, “I want all of you out. Now. Think you’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”

Victor winces inwardly.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he says in exasperation, and pulls out the gun. The bartender recoils, and then recovers himself, glowering heavily at Victor. “I think it’s you who needs to leave. Go, if you know what’s good for you.”

“You little -”

“Your bar will still be here in the morning,” Victor says impatiently over the bartender’s stream of curses. “It will probably even still be in one piece. Given the quality of some of the patronage, that’s a miracle in and of itself. Now _go_ , and forget our faces, or we shall be forced to deal with you as well.”

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything further, let alone confirm that the bartender has listened to him, because at that moment something heavy crashes into his arm and the gun goes flying. Cursing, he shoves against the dead weight and sends Smidt stumbling backward.

Out of the corner of his eye, Victor sees that Carson has caught Sherlock about the neck, but Sherlock has the advantage of height and throws the smaller man off easily. Smidt comes at him again, and Victor slams his elbow into the man’s stomach, stunning him just for a moment. Victor and Smidt are more evenly matched, though that doesn’t say much, as Smidt is about twice as broad and has an entire head on him. He’d be able to snap Sherlock in two and not feel it, so Victor tries to draw Smidt’s attention away from his partner with various jabs and right hooks.

It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to overpower Carson, and he drops to the floor like a limp doll. Victor can’t tell whether he’s dead or unconscious, and doesn’t particularly care at the moment. His own fight has become nasty, and now involves furniture. He’s stumbled out of both of his boots--and even he isn’t sure how that happened, it’s all rather fuzzy--and is treading on shards of glass. They sink deep into the bottoms of his feet, and soon the floor beneath him grows slippery and treacherous with blood.

Sherlock manages to get to the gun, and Victor ducks a split-second before a bullet bursts out the front of Smidt’s forehead, showering him in blood and gore and killing the other man instantly. Victor shoves the body away, and it crashes into the upturned table.

“The other one?” he pants after a moment, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. It comes away red, and he’s sure the blood isn’t his own.

“Dead as well,” Sherlock says shortly. He sticks the gun in his belt and takes Victor by the elbow. “We need to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Victor leans more weight on Sherlock than he cares to admit and takes a tentative step.

“Let’s go.”

 

Victor is sitting on the counter in the bathroom when Sherlock comes in, his left leg crossed over his knee, picking at the glass embedded on the bottom of his foot. Blood drips off the end of his toes as his right foot dangles inches above the ground, as battered as his left is. He winces every so often and now and then has to pause, breathing heavily through his nose as he tries to ignore the pain.

Sherlock hands him a flannel and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Thank you,” Victor murmurs absently, his voice resigned and tinged with exhaustion.

“He saw you,” Sherlock says. He watches as Victor sets the tweezers aside, having got out the last of the glass, and picks up the flannel. “He saw your face.”

“Who?” Victor begins to clean his wounds. “Oh, the bartender. Yes, I’m aware.”

“That was idiotic,” Sherlock snaps.

“What would you have me do, stand by while those two goons snapped your neck? I tried to be discreet, but face it, Sherlock: they already knew that there are two men out there working on undermining the network. Whether the bartender goes to the police or somehow is found out by Moran’s network, it doesn’t matter. He won’t be able to tell them anything they didn’t already know.”

“He’ll be able to describe you to them.”

Victor says nothing to this, and resumes picking glass out of his feet. His movements are slow and sluggish, and he pauses every few moments to rest, tipping his head back against the mirror and closing his eyes. His left one is nearly swollen shut, and bruises litter what skin is visible on his arms and neck. His knuckles are cracked and bleeding.

A glance in the mirror tells Sherlock that he himself looks no better. It’s been an age since he’s been involved in a physical fight with someone, and his muscles remind him of this fact with every movement he makes. Victor, going by what little Sherlock saw of his skills tonight, has not let his own abilities lapse. Nonetheless, he is still battered and bleeding, and easily could have died.

_ You’re going to get him killed, you know. _

“Do stop hovering,” Victor mutters, breaking Sherlock from his thoughts. “God, you’re a nuisance. Go... research or something.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock says suddenly, grabbing the flannel from Victor’s hands. He finishes cleaning the wounds with brisk efficiency and binds the left foot with bandages from their bag. He then picks up the tweezers again and taps Victor’s right knee. It takes Victor some moments to manage it, but eventually he crosses his right ankle over his other knee and leans back, allowing Sherlock to begin picking out the glass.

He lasts for about five minutes before the pain is too much, and he taps Sherlock in the chest with a toe, indicating that he pause. Sherlock hands him back the tweezers and starts rummaging around in one of the cabinets. He emerges with shaving cream and a razor and receives a resigned nod from Victor. The beard needs to go, now that the bartender has seen his face.

“Oh, go on,” Victor mutters finally as Sherlock begins lathering up his face. “Let it out.”

“Don’t talk, I’ll cut you.”

“You haven’t even started yet. Come on, give it up. Do your big reveal, I know you’re dying to. There’s a reason we didn’t make the kill right away tonight, and almost ended up dead ourselves.”

“Why do you say that?” Sherlock asks, buying time.

Victor lets out a huff of breath.

“There’s always a reason for the things that you do. We didn’t make the kill at the appointed time because you discovered a better alternative. So come on, out with it.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock says quietly after a moment. “There _is_ a reason why I didn’t give you the signal tonight: I made a mistake.”

Victor blinks. “You what?”

“Quiet, I’ll not be repeating myself.” Sherlock brings the razor to Victor’s cheek, rests it there for a moment, and then makes one long swath through the beard. He considers his next words, and then says, “I... forgot entirely about the signal.”

He pauses a moment as he works along the line of Victor’s jaw and then his neck, careful to keep the razor from biting the delicate flesh.

“I was distracted by their recount of what it was like to work alongside Moriarty--for that’s who they were referring to during our conversation, though they never said his name. I... found myself intrigued. Up until tonight, I knew only of his crimes. Our encounters totaled less than twenty minutes, and I had little idea of how the man operated. I could guess at how his mind worked--it’s not dissimilar from mine--but to hear about his network from its own members... It was fascinating, Victor.”

Sherlock moves to the left side of Victor’s face and does away with the rest of the beard in efficient, methodical swipes.

“You miss him,” Victor says eventually, between swipes of the razor.

Sherlock shakes his head but says nothing. He finishes shaving Victor and then hands him a wet flannel, which Victor uses to wipe off his face. Silence reigns for some moments as Victor resumes picking glass out of his foot and Sherlock cleans up.

Finally, Victor rests his head against the mirror; closes his eyes. The tweezers fall from his loosened fingers and clatter into the sink, and for a moment Sherlock believes he’s fallen asleep.

“You were a bit in love with him, I think,” Victor murmurs suddenly. He cracks open his eyes; regards Sherlock blearily. “No. That’s not quite right. He was you and you were him.”

Victor shuts his eyes again. “You’ll never have that again.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snaps.

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock, I haven’t the patience for it and it’s insulting.”

“What is it you want me to say?”

Victor plucks a bandage from the bag and laboriously begins wrapping his right foot.

“I want you to acknowledge that you’re grieving,” he says at last, “and that it’s making you careless. Tonight shouldn’t have happened.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, he runs the back of a finger down Victor’s smooth cheek, wondering if this change will be sufficient to keep him disguised. Victor’s jaw and chin are a shade lighter than the rest of his face, the difference noticeable only because of the bathroom’s harsh lighting. The absence of the beard takes years off his face. To gaze at him now is to look into the past, back to a time before Moriarty. He will be instantly recognizable to anyone who knew him from back then, but it’s also a face that no one has seen for four years.

When they kiss, Sherlock closes his eyes and smells autumn leaves; feels chapped lips sliding against his own in an empty library; sees Victor, sweaty and exhilarated after a victorious rugby match, sweep him up in a crushing embrace. Sherlock cups Victor’s beardless face, feeling bare skin beneath his fingers, and they are nineteen, twenty, twenty-one again.

They break apart, and Sherlock rests a thumb against Victor’s bottom lip. Victor is brilliant, Victor is wonderful, but Victor isn’t Moriarty. Victor has never truly understood the tedium, has never experienced the terrifying crush of boredom that threatens to sink Sherlock every moment of every day. 

Moriarty did, and Moriarty died. 

Sherlock had not known Moriarty when Victor first entered his life sixteen years ago; had not known that there was anyone else  out there who came closer to matching his level of intellect than Victor did. Moriarty burst into his life when Sherlock needed him most, a ball of flame who appeared out of the unending darkness that came on when Victor died. And then he disappeared, before Sherlock could fully appreciate how much that distraction was needed. He is gone, and there is no one else in the universe who can truly replace him. 

And Sherlock couldn’t be more grateful for that. 

Victor isn’t Moriarty, that much is true. But Victor is brilliant and beautiful in his own right. He is dazzling where Moriarty was tarnished. He is not Moriarty, but rather he is _more_ than Moriarty. He is everlasting; far from a fleeting infatuation. He is true, he is constant, and he is forever.

He is _not_ Moriarty.

Sherlock takes Victor’s face in his hands, cupping it gently and forcing their eyes to meet. 

“There are times when I do miss it, yes. I miss the thrill. I miss the puzzles. I crave distraction, you’ve always known that. But how can you think,” he whispers urgently, repeating the words he spoke months ago, “that there could be _anyone_ else but you?”

“Sher -”

“You are _not_ Moriarty, Victor, and there’s not a moment that passes where I’m not grateful for that!” Sherlock insists vehemently. “You are full of spirit, full of life, the very opposite of me! Why do you think I was drawn to you in the first place? I could be with you for a lifetime and still not know everything about you. You are fascinating, and always will be so. And I promise you, we _will_ get through this and you _will_ come home with me.”

Victor curls his hands around Sherlock’s wrists, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“When did _you_ become the optimist, of all people?” he asks finally, quietly.

“Since the day I found you standing on the other side of a door, alive and well; the stuff of dreams.” Sherlock feels his eyes begin to burn and forces the sensation away. Blind optimism seizes him, and he feels hope and faith soar in his chest. They _will_ get through this. Tonight shouldn’t have happened, and it will not happen again. They _will_ go home. Sherlock is sure of this; he can accept no other outcome. It is foolish, it is madness, and it is all to do with Victor.  
  
He calls it irrationality.  
  
But he knows that others would call it _love._


	12. Chapter 12

The phone call comes at three in the morning, and is exactly what John and Greg have been expecting.

Afterward, Greg goes to the kitchen and makes a cup of tea. It’s the only reaction he gives to the news from his mother, but it speaks volumes. He usually doesn’t often touch the stuff, despite John’s love for it. Greg prefers coffee, and there is an entire shelf in his kitchen that is stocked with a variety of--in John’s opinion, truly horrendous--blends. And the amount of coffee he drinks tends to be indicative of his moods. On the particularly difficult days, Greg will drink the vile stuff throughout the day and come home from work practically vibrating.

But tea is another matter entirely. Tea is reserved for the days before John, when Greg would sit up half the night with a grieving and high Sherlock. Or it’s reserved for days when there are dead children; when there is unspeakable loss.

The last time Greg had made a pot of tea, they had just buried Sherlock.

John joins him, but says nothing. He fixes his own cup of tea and bends to kiss the back of Greg’s head before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table.

“We knew this was coming,” Greg says after a moment, and John’s heart breaks, because even now Greg is trying to reassure _him_.

_ We knew this was coming. I’m all right. Don’t worry about me. _

John reaches across the table for Greg’s hand, and sits with him until dawn.

\----

The fourth name on Irene Adler’s list is one Jason Smith and, having burned their bridges in Milan, this is where Sherlock and Victor are forced to turn their attentions next. 

Sherlock is able to track down a Jason Smith who has more-than-tenuous connections to Moriarty’s network, and he is living in Paris--the third location on Adler’s list. But careful, remote inquiries to this Jason Smith’s neighbors tell them that the address is a seasonal home, and that Smith spends much of his time abroad--but where, no one can say for sure.

The flat in Paris has a vast security system, however, and after an hour of work Victor is able to tap into the cameras remotely. Sherlock then spends an afternoon poring over the video footage, memorizing near every inch of Smith’s flat. It is spacious and sparse, with plain furniture of pale wood that looks as though no one has ever used it. Abstract paintings hang on the wall in near every room, their colours bright and obnoxious. Victor quickly writes off the flat as useless and impersonal; it doesn’t look as though there’s anything of use there. 

But Sherlock doesn’t dismiss the images so easily, and he spends a further hour studying them while Victor moves into another room with his mobile. Jason Smith’s building is large, and he has multiple neighbors. Victor hopes that carefully-phrased and veiled questions will dredge up some more scraps of information regarding Smith’s private life. They need to find a way to get at the man so as to obtain whatever information he might possess, and if they can find someone close to Smith, it just might be their way in. 

“Zurich!” Sherlock finally shouts in triumph as the afternoon wears into evening, slapping the table in triumph. Victor starts at the noise and quickly rings off his latest phone call. It was a waste of time, anyway--he has just spent the past half-hour listening to an elderly woman talk about poinsettias.

“What?”

“Obvious, so _obvious_ , I should have seen it immediately _,”_ Sherlock mutters under his breath as Victor comes to stand at his shoulder. He points at the screen, where he’s pulled up an image of Smith’s bedroom. “Look, that wall there. The painting.”

“It’s blue,” Victor says flatly. Due to the angle of the camera, only half of the painting is visible. Victor can’t see what use it is. “So what?”

“And it’s _white_ ,” Sherlock says, as though that’s supposed to mean something. “And the colours are at a diagonal, see? Only it’s not just a painting, it’s a coat of arms. Zurich, Switzerland.”

They are in Zurich by the following afternoon.

Careful piecing together of Victor’s fragmented interviews with Jason Smith’s neighbors reveals that Smith had a lively nightlife and a penchant for lovers half his age. They are able to track down a few of the bars that Smith was known to frequent, and they also know that he kept a lover in the city. Sherlock is the one who finally gives him a name.

“Andrew Bailey, originally from London, currently studying at the University of Zurich,” Sherlock rattles off from the information he’s reading on his laptop. One of Jason Smith’s neighbors had mentioned an expensive designer Smith used for his suits, and that scrap of trivial information allowed Sherlock to draw conclusions about Smith’s lover. Frankly, Victor thinks this is a stretch, even for Sherlock. 

“You’re certain about that?” he asks with a quirked eyebrow. Sherlock glowers at him.  

“Yes,” he says, standing and thrusting the laptop into Victor’s hands. He points to a photograph he has pulled up from the university’s website, that of an ebony-haired man just on the cusp of adulthood. “And you’re going to seduce him.”

Victor, who is no stranger to having to use his body as a persuasion technique, still blinks stupidly at him.

“Sorry, what?”

“We need to find out where Jason Smith is currently living. Or, at the least, what areas of the world he might travel to when he’s not living here in Zurich. People are more likely to reveal secrets when with a potential lover or during the act of sex, surely you know this. I’d do it myself, but your features are more common than mine. You will be forgotten more quickly,” Sherlock says quickly, waving a hand vaguely through the air. “Besides, you have always found a certain thrill in bedding men younger than you. What?”

Victor blinks at him.

“I think you just insulted me twice in one breath,” he says finally, setting the laptop aside. “That might be a new record.”

Sherlock smirks.

“Was anything I said untrue?”

Victor scowls half-heartedly.

“No, you prick,” he mutters, resisting a smile. “No, you’re correct, as usual. Where do you suggest we start?

 

They spend several nights frequenting bars known to be hotspots for those studying at the local university and attempt to track down this mysterious lover. It’s a long shot, but it seems to be their only hope at this point for finding the elusive Jason Smith. By night three, however, Victor begins to suspect that this is entirely the wrong way of going about it, and by night five even Sherlock is beginning to look discouraged.

And then, on night six, Sherlock quite literally runs into the man they’ve been looking for. 

“Dark hair, six feet tall, wearing a blue jumper and standing by the door,” Sherlock hisses to Victor when he returns from the toilets. Victor glances at the door and spots the man Sherlock’s indicated almost instantly. Even in the dim light of the bar, he can see that Jason Smith’s lover is striking. “He bumped into me.”

Victor watches Andrew Bailey for a moment, as the man isn’t looking in his direction. The planes of his face are soft with the flesh of youth, and Victor suddenly feels the press of years upon his shoulders. It seems not all that long ago that he was in a similar position, exploring unspoken desires under the anonymity afforded to him by the pubs. He recalls dark-haired men and half-forgotten beds, and nostalgia strikes him. Those early days were bright with the unknown, exciting and unexplored, and he doesn’t regret a moment of them.

But those days are also much further away than he realises. _God_ , when did he ever get to be this old?

“Christ,” Victor murmurs at last, “were we ever that young?”

Sherlock looks to Andrew Bailey, and the small knot of young men that surround him.

“We were younger,” he says softly.

Victor hums in response and takes another sip of his water. He leans back, propping his elbows on the bar behind him and cradling his glass in both hands. He’s facing the room fully now, eyes scanning over its patrons. The night is early; there’s no need to rush making contact with Bailey. If it comes to it, Victor will go over to him and strike up a conversation. Or perhaps he’ll be more subtle at first, and send Bailey a drink to begin with. 

But before he’s fully decided on the best course of action, Victor feels the side of his neck prickle, as though sensing a gaze, and he takes a furtive glance to his left.

“Lucky break. You’ve caught someone’s attention,” Sherlock murmurs in his ear, on the pretense of reaching around Victor to leave a tip on the bar. 

“So I’ve noticed,” Victor says. Andrew Bailey is staring at him. He turns to look at the younger man, and they lock eyes for a charged moment before glancing away from each other. Victor half-turns to Sherlock. “I can take it from here. Lay low for the night. I might not be back until morning.”

He feels Sherlock’s nod and the sudden, cold emptiness at his side when Sherlock slips away.  

 

Victor orders Andrew a drink, and for half an hour they exchange tentative, electric glances from across the room. Eventually, Andrew moves closer and they strike up a conversation. By the time the bar closes, Victor has managed to cop a few feels of Andrew’s backside, and his touches are far from unwelcome. 

They end up back at Andrew’s flat.

Andrew has just barely shut the door before Victor is upon him, and he presses Andrew up against the wall. He mouths over the swell of Andrew’s Adam’s apple and drags his teeth across Andrew’s collarbone. Andrew’s breath hitches as Victor’s lips ghost across his skin.

“You like that, son?” Victor murmurs into his ear, chuckling. 

“Yeah," Andrew whispers breathlessly.

Victor ducks his head and mouths the hard cord of muscle at Andrew’s throat; sucks a bruise into the junction between his shoulder and neck. Andrew lets out a whimper and pushes a hand into Victor’s hair, cupping the back of his head.

“And don't call me _son,”_ Andrew says as Victor finds a particularly sensitive spot just under his jaw. “I’m twenty-four, for Christ’s sake.”

He’s not, there’s no way that he is, but Victor lets it pass. He presses a leg between Andrew’s, feeling the man’s growing erection against his thigh, and nips at the curve of his jaw.

“You’ve got a lover,” Victor purrs against Andrew’s skin. He captures both of Andrew’s wrists in his hands and presses them against the wall. Andrew lets out a breathy gasp. “Just how disappointed should I be?”

Andrew, for his part, doesn’t even try to deny it.

“He’s only here for a few months every year,” he whispers. He turns his head to nudge Victor with his jaw and finally gets the proper kiss he’s been seeking all night. When they break apart, he whispers, “How’d you guess?”

“I never guess,” Victor says with a smirk. He reaches a hand between them and cups Andrew through his trousers. Andrew gasps and bucks into his hand; Victor feels his smirk widen. It sends a thrill through his spine to realise that _he_ is the one having such an effect on this man who is nearly half his age. “So tell me... just how worried should I be, then? Your lover wouldn’t happen to be in town, would he?”

“Not tonight...” Andrew trails off as Victor palms the hard length of his cock. “He has a flat elsewhere.”

“Will he be there for long?”

“What does it matter?” Now Andrew sounds impatient, even with Victor’s hand working at the fastenings on his belt. “He’s gone for the night.”

“I just want to make sure we’re not interrupted,” Victor says in a low purr. “I don’t suppose his flat is... too _close.”_

But Andrew is having none of it, and he stills Victor’s hands.

“What do you care?” he asks, now suspicious and irritated.

Victor moves too quickly for Andrew to react and pins his free hand to the wall, rendering him virtually immobile.

“I care very much,” Victor says in a low, deadly voice. “Now. Where is he? Where is Jason Smith, Andrew?”

Andrew’s face flashes from confused to deeply hurt to furious, all in the space of less than three seconds. He wrenches his wrists from Victor’s grip with a surprising strength, punches him in the nose, and is out the door and down the stairs before Victor has a chance to recover himself.

Victor, spitting curses, tears after him.

 

Andrew has the advantage of knowing this city well, and he almost loses Victor with a series of seemingly senseless detours. But then he makes for one of the beaches, running for one of the piers. Victor has no idea what he hopes to accomplish--does he mean to swim the expanse of the vast, black lake?--but he has no intention of allowing Andrew to succeed. Andrew has the advantage of youth and agility; Victor has the advantage of endurance. Andrew begins to tire as they both sprint towards the nearest pier, and Victor is able to catch up to him by the time they reach it.

Victor brings his fist down on Andrew’s back, landing the blow squarely between his shoulder blades. Andrew stumbles and goes down, smacking into the edge of the pier with a sickening _crack_ and landing in the water. Victor skids to a halt and drops to his knees. When Andrew resurfaces, sputtering and enraged, Victor grabs him by the front of his shirt with one hand and grips the edge of the pier with his other.

“Give me a name!” he bellows.

“Fuck you,” Andrew spits. Victor shoves him under the water and holds him there, heedless of Andrew’s sudden frantic struggle and the hands that claw uselessly at his wrist. He counts to ten and then brings Andrew up for air.

“Tell me a name,” he hisses at the sputtering man. “Anything that will lead me to Smith’s whereabouts. A street, a neighbor, _anything.”_

“No,” Andrew gasps, and he goes under again before he’s had a chance to catch his breath.

Victor repeats this twice more, until finally Andrew hisses, _“Reichenbach.”_

“What was that?” Victor demands. Andrew spits out a mouthful of water and stares at Victor through eyes that glint in the darkness, reflecting the light of a nearby lamp.

“Reichenbach,” he snaps. “And... and Richard Brook.”

“Is this a joke?” Victor growls.

“That’s all I know!” Andrew insists between coughs. “I heard him - I heard him talking once on the phone. The first could - could be the name of a street, and maybe the other one is a neighbor.”

_ “Where?” _

“Kilchberg,” Andrew snaps finally. “I swear to God, that’s all I know.”

Victor gives a grunt of frustration but releases Andrew and jumps to his feet. The stunned man treads water and sucks in deep, grateful lungfuls of air.

“What do you want with him, anyway?” Andrew asks, but his voice is no longer sure. It wavers with unease, and Victor feels a sharp stab of regret. “He’s never done any harm.”

“Not to you,” Victor says bitterly, realising what needs to be done. “Not until now, that is.”

He reaches for his gun, whispers, _“God forgive me,”_ and fires. Andrew slips beneath the surface of the water.

It happens so quickly, he doesn’t even look surprised.

 

Victor doesn’t notice he’s trembling until he gets back to their rooms. He fumbles with his keys, and it takes him several long seconds to finally open the door. When he does, he finds that Sherlock is standing on the other side, still fully dressed, a gun in hand. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, lowering the weapon. 

“Jesus, careful with that thing,” Victor mutters. He pushes past Sherlock and kicks the door shut behind him. “Of course it’s me, what’d you take me for, the world’s noisiest burglar?”

“You’re injured.”

Victor presses the back of his hand against his nose; it comes away bloody.

“I’ll live.” Victor sniffs and tastes blood. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “We need to get to Kilchberg as soon as possible. I think you’re going to find evidence of Moriarty there.”

“Tell me,” Sherlock says briskly, setting the gun aside and grabbing a towel for Victor’s nose. 

Victor relays his story as quickly as he can, knowing Sherlock would appreciate nothing less than absolute haste.

“The only words he could think of were Richard Brook and _Reichenbach,”_ Victor says as he comes to the end of his tale. “He heard Smith talking about it once. He didn’t seem to make the connection between the two. Anyway, it means that Smith at least knew about Richard Brook. And if he knew about Brook...”

“He might have some solid evidence proving Moriarty’s existence, or Brook’s fabrication.” Sherlock’s eyes are wide with delight and no small amount of hope. A fist seals itself around Victor’s heart. He hopes desperately that this will prove to be true, and they will at least be able to put some of Sherlock’s worries to rest. “Oh, Victor, this is _brilliant.”_

“Have a heart, Sherlock, a boy died tonight.”

The words are out before Victor realises he’s even had the thought, and he bites the inside of his cheek.

“Sorry,” he mutters when Sherlock turns to look at him. “I didn’t mean...”

“You suspected this would happen,” Sherlock points out, though he sounds almost gentle about it. 

Victor nods.

“I had to kill him,” he says quietly. “He was too close to Smith; he would have relayed our conversation immediately. And he saw my face... saw more of me than he should have, really. He would have identified me on the spot, common features or no.”

“Not to mention the fact that he would have perished immediately after identifying you,” Sherlock says, and it takes Victor a moment to realise that Sherlock is trying to _comfort_ him. “They would have killed him anyway, if he was lucky.”

“He said he was twenty-four,” Victor mutters. “But he was twenty if he was a day. _Merde.”_

“What do you think they would have done to him when they found out he gave us Richard Brook?” Sherlock asks. “Because you know they would have found out, Victor, there’s no way he could have kept it secret. He had no idea it was a secret that was _supposed_ to be kept. The fate you offered him was far kinder.”

Victor sighs.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Sherlock, but don’t,” he says in a hollow voice. “I’m not a good man. Most days, I’m not even a decent one. It’s no use trying to pretend otherwise. Come on. Let’s get packed.”

 

They are in Jason Smith’s Kilchberg flat within a day. 

Smith has a series of encryptions on his laptop. They’re more than a normal person would need to protect his work but not enough to keep Sherlock out. He takes a few glances around the living room before cracking all the encryptions. It takes less than ten minutes.

Victor keeps watch, though it’s the middle of the day and most of the residents in this building are at work. His hand twitches, fingers never very far from the trigger on his gun, but the world outside remains quiet.

It is too easy.

“Find anything yet?” Victor asks after half an hour, uneasy. Sherlock shakes his head, the crease between his brows deepening. 

“No,” he says, and pulls a USB stick from his pocket. “And there’s no time to search further. We’ll have to download the contents of his computer and take them with us.” 

“Make it quick,” Victor says, pacing the room and continuing to keep an eye on the windows. “None of this feels right.”

Sherlock pulls the USB stick from the laptop and opens his mouth to reply, but he is interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the stairwell outside. He moves to the door, and Victor reaches for his gun.

The door flies open before either of them can react further, and Jason Smith steps through. If he is surprised, he does not show it. Hand still on the doorknob, he shoves his shoulder into the door and rams it fully open. It catches Sherlock full in the side before he can sidestep it, and sends him sprawling.

The USB stick flies from Sherlock’s hand and skitters across the floor. For a moment Victor is torn between it and Sherlock-- _stupid, stupid!_ \--and that moment is all it takes before Jason Smith is upon a still-stunned Sherlock. He cracks a fist across Sherlock’s face and lands a blow to his stomach. Sherlock, who had tried to struggle back to his feet, doubles over. Smith slams the heel of his foot down on Sherlock’s left hand, and Victor knows even before the _crack_ that the bones are broken.

But Smith doesn’t get any further than that before Victor has barreled into him. They both tumble to the floor, but Victor is the more nimble of the two and in an instant has forced Smith to his knees, his hands behind his back. Sherlock, pale from the pain, remains kneeling. He reaches over with his good hand and grabs Smith’s hair, forcing his head back.

“I won’t tell you anything,” Smith growls before Sherlock can say anything.

“That’s just fine,” Sherlock hisses. “ _I have your records_.”

“I knew you would be coming,” Smith goes on, heedless of the fury in Sherlock’s face. “What makes you think you’re going to find anything of use on that computer?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen fractionally.

“How did you know we were coming?” he hisses. When Smith doesn’t answer, Sherlock strikes him across the face. "You’re going to be wanted by Moran’s people the moment they find out someone has stolen your computer records, and that’s not a very safe place to stand right now. It certainly won’t make you any friends. So I ask you again--who gave you that information?”

Smith’s nostrils flare, and he spits in Sherlock’s face.

“They found a body on the shore of Lake Zurich this morning,” he hisses as Sherlock’s hand tightens painfully in his hair. “Someone murdered Andrew Bailey; it wasn't much of a stretch to realise that whoever did it would be coming for me next. But you’re right. We know that someone out there has been questioning Moriarty’s clients, and a select few have been told to keep an eye out for you two.”

“Told by _who?_ Who knows about us?”

Smith’s smile is sickening. 

“It was a poor move, shooting Andrew. Do you really think you'll get any answers out of me? I've nothing left to lose now.”

Sherlock stumbles to his feet, glaring down at Smith.

“It’s a pity you saw our faces,” he spits finally. “You might have lived, otherwise.”

Sherlock turns away to go retrieve the USB stick.

Victor snaps Smith’s neck.

 

“It was still too easy,” Victor says later, when they’re back in their rooms. “All things considered.”

He has gathered what few medical supplies they have and forced Sherlock to down a few stiff shots of the room’s stash of alcohol. Sherlock looks away. When Victor sets the broken bones, he sinks his teeth into the base of his thumb on his good hand to stifle his sharp cry of agony.

“All right?” Victor asks some moments later, when Sherlock has had a chance to compose himself. He wraps bandages around Sherlock’s hand, binding it tight. A thin sheen of sweat has broken out across Sherlock’s brow and his upper lip is damp. He accepts Victor’s handkerchief and wipes his face. He then downs a handful of weak painkillers and finally speaks.

“It was too easy,” he agrees quietly. He pulls the USB stick from his pocket and turns it over in his good hand thoughtfully. “Nevertheless... we still have this.”

“Do you think he was bluffing?”

“I’m almost certain of it,” Sherlock says, reaching for his laptop. “There was virtually no time for him to have wiped all the records if his suspicions truly were aroused just today. By the time news of Bailey’s death would have reached him, it would have been too late. Even if he did manage it, however... it would have been a sloppy job. No doubt any files that were wiped can still be recovered.” 

“Here, let me have a look,” Victor says, holding out his hand for the computer. “It’s more my area of expertise, anyway.”

Sherlock hands the laptop over without protest, which in itself is indicative of the amount of pain he’s still in. He then stretches out on one of the beds while Victor starts to pick away at the files he managed to pull from Smith’s laptop. Progress is slow because he scours each one, looking for a mention of a name or evidence that the file had actually been altered. He eventually comes across a handful of fragmented documents that pertain to Brook--half of a resume, part of a lease, a portion of a medical record. It appears as though someone did indeed try to be rid of the files, and ran out of time. 

“Sherlock,” Victor says. When he receives no response, he glances up from the screen. The lights in the room have been extinguished, and Sherlock is unmoving on the bed, an arm thrown across his eyes. Victor checks the time; it’s well after midnight. He tries again anyway, because this can’t wait: _“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock rouses then, and groggily pushes himself into a sitting position with his good hand.

“Do you have something?” he rasps. Victor comes to sit at his side. 

“These records have all been faked,” he says, setting the computer on Sherlock’s lap. “Everything pertaining to Richard Brook on Smith's computer was a complete fabrication. The records themselves are real enough, but Moriarty’s information has been written over the man they used to belong to.”

“Wrapping up a lie in the truth,” Sherlock murmurs. “We've always known the records are fake. The real question is, can you prove it?”

“That they’re fake? Absolutely.” Victor shifts closer; their shoulders brush. “You know what this means, don’t you? You can go _home_ , Sherlock.”

_ “We  _ can go home,” Sherlock says automatically, and Victor doesn’t bother to correct him. Now isn’t the time for that discussion.  “Once we finish dismantling the rest of the network.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, looking weary and dejected even though this information is what he's been searching for these past few months.

“Where do we go from here, Victor?” he mutters at last, though it’s clear from his cadence that he doesn’t expect an answer to that question. They are running out of names on Irene Adler’s list, and are no closer to bringing down the network.

As it happens, though, Victor has an answer for him. He reaches for the laptop once again and pulls up another file--this one, completely unrelated to Richard Brook.

“I think,” he says, “that I have an idea about that, actually.”


	13. Chapter 13

When John comes home from work that afternoon, he knows immediately that something is wrong.

The flat is dark, and he finds Greg in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that his arms are trembling.

“Greg?”

“I just got off the phone with my mother. I’m not to bring you to the funeral.”

Greg’s words are flat; clipped. John can’t say that he’s surprised at them.

“Because of...” he trails off, waving a hand between them. Greg snorts at his vagueness.

“Because we started sleeping together while I was still married, yes,” he says bluntly.

True, Greg had been separated from his wife at the time, but John doesn’t like to make that distinction, as though it absolves them of everything they did. As though it erased the thrill that had shot down John’s spine the first time Greg cupped his face and kissed him, his wedding band heavy and cold against the side of John’s face.

“Because they can’t accept the fact that my marriage was always going to end,” Greg goes on. “ _You_ had nothing to do with that. I’m not saying what we did is right... but damn it, John, he was my father, too. I should be able to have the man I love come to his funeral.”

Greg grips the sink and still refuses to meet John’s gaze. John squeezes his shoulder in sympathy, hearing the guilt that tinges his words. They had long ago accepted what embarking on a relationship means for them--a certain level of transparency, for one.

It also means that they must never be allowed to forget how they began, John knowingly sleeping with a married man and Greg making no secret of his marital status. They had been discreet--almost frighteningly so. Even Sherlock hadn’t picked up on it until after Greg’s divorce, though he did come the closest. But his suspicions of indiscretion that Christmas had fallen on the wrong Lestrade, and it had only served to deter John and Greg for two months at the most.

“What do you want?” John presses.

“I want my dad back,” Greg answers automatically, seemingly without thinking, and he visibly flinches once he realises what he’s said.

“Hey.” John grips Greg’s shoulder and turns him around. But that’s as far as he gets, because he doesn’t know what to say; there’s nothing that comes to mind that could comfort Greg. He leans his forehead against Greg’s instead, and feels Greg sag against him. He winds his arms around Greg’s neck and Greg rests his hands on John’s hips, and they stand there for countless minutes.

“I can take a lot of things,” Greg murmurs at last. “I can accept that this relationship needs to come with conditions. I accept that I hurt Susan, and badly. But John... we’re getting _married_. I shouldn’t have to - to _hide_ you away from my family.”

“So what is it you _want_ , Greg?”

Greg cups the side of his face and regards him carefully.

“I want you there.”

John takes his hand; holds it between both of his own.

“Then that’s where I’ll be. And sod the rest.”

\-----

_ Tuck and roll _ . 

It’s instinct now, so often has Victor had to use it in his line of work. The movement is muscle memory, his body performing it before his mind has had chance to catch up with what is happening. His mind went white the moment the first punch was thrown, and some base part of him took over, delivering a sharp blow to the side of his assailant’s head and dodging a barrage of bullets from the shadows with the swift _tuck and roll_.

When he comes back to himself, he’s out on the street. It’s the dead of night and the pavement is empty as he runs, and he bolts towards the building where Sherlock was supposed to be making a rendezvous with the leader of a drug ring here in Munich. 

The city is a tiny criminal hotspot with ties to Moran’s larger network. Victor was able to detect this small branch of the network thanks to files found on Jason Smith’s computer, and it seems that Smith was in regular contact with them. Sherlock had been trying to infiltrate the drug ring in order to gather more information on the larger part of the branch. Needless to say, Victor is now doubting Sherlock’s success.

Mentally, Victor takes a tally as he runs. Two assailants caught him unawares in an alley while he was out for a walk. Sherlock had barred him from the meeting, feeling that it was best to limit the number of people who saw them together. Not that it seems to matter, Victor thinks bitterly. Somehow, they were found out anyway. 

As they have been twice before tonight.

Of Victor’s two assailants, though, one has been incapacitated. Even if he wakes up, he will be unarmed, as Victor managed to lift his weapon before the bullets started to fly.

But that still leaves one man who saw Victor’s profile, if not his face, and no doubt he has now alerted his boss to Sherlock’s deceit.

_ Damn it _ .

When Victor comes upon the building, though--which is part of a row of abandoned flats--it is eerily quiet and dark. He scrubs a hand through damp hair and hisses in frustration, his heart knocking wildly against his ribcage. Where could they be?

The sound of scuffling reaches his ears and Victor, dread sitting heavy in his stomach, looks up.

_ “Shit.” _

 

The neighboring building is some stories taller than the one Sherlock is in--or _on_ , as it happens--and Victor kicks in several doors on the sixth storey before finding one flat with a window that looks out onto the fight occurring on the opposite roof.

Victor has no idea what led them to the roof, but Sherlock is in the midst of a fight with a stranger--the drug ring leader, probably, but at this point in their mission Victor has learned not to assume these things. He forces the window open, enough to fit the gun through, and takes aim. 

The weight of the gun is unfamiliar in his hand, and Victor adjusts his grip, trying to keep his hand steady as adrenaline thrums through him. He’s made shots like this before, countless times, but never before with Sherlock so close to the bullet’s path, and certainly never with a gun that wasn’t his. 

Across the way, Sherlock comes with a hair’s breadth of being shoved over the edge of the roof, and Victor hisses a quiet, _“No,”_ to himself. But then Sherlock gains enough leverage to whirl them both away from the edge, and for a brief instant there is more than a sliver of space between the grappling men.

Victor takes his shot. 

Sherlock stumbles backward but it’s his assailant who jerks and falls. For a moment, Victor sits there, sucking in sharp lungfuls of air as he tries to calm his stuttering heart.

And then he’s on his feet again, and running. 

 

Victor scales the flights of stairs in the neighboring building as though they are nothing and makes it to the roof without fully realizing the protesting twinge in his muscles. Sherlock is bent over the dead man’s body, rifling through the pockets with his good hand, his movements frantic. Sweat drips into his eyes and he’s sporting a split lip, but otherwise he appears relatively unharmed. He holds his healing broken hand against his side, favouring it, but the bandage appears intact.

Sherlock shoves the dead man’s gun in his own belt and takes a handful of bills from his pockets--they really could use the money--before turning his attention to the papers he’s found in the man’s wallet. 

“We have to keep moving,” Victor gasps as he jogs up to Sherlock. “He wasn’t alone.”

Sherlock glances at him, takes in his rumpled appearance and the new gun, and says, “You were attacked.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle, but I’d rather not take on more of his friends.”

“Good shot, by the way.”

“Of course it was.”

Sherlock tries to get to his feet and staggers. Victor grips him by the elbow and hauls him up, pulls him close, cups the back of his neck and crushes their mouths together. The kiss is needy and relentless, fueled by adrenaline, and when Victor draws away he tastes Sherlock’s sweat on his lips; Sherlock’s blood on his tongue. 

Sherlock is breathing heavily, and not all of it is to do with his earlier exertions. He allows one moment of tenderness--presses his hand to Victor’s shoulder--before moving back to his assailant’s body. They won’t have time to stage this death, not this time, so they take what evidence they can and leave. His body won’t be found before they leave the country--which will be tonight, if Victor has anything to say about it--and he hasn’t left too many friends behind who will demand a full investigation. 

They are safe, for the time being.

\----

From: John   
To: Greg Lestrade

Subject: (none)

Greg - 

I have a bit of time here before dinner, so I thought I’d let you know that I arrived in Dublin. It’s a beautiful city, and we’ve even got some snow. Too bad I won’t be able to see much of the city once the conference starts. Probably won’t be going outside at all, really.

Anyway, Sarah’s due to arrive at any minute and then we’re getting together with some of the other conference attendees for dinner. Send your nieces my love. I hope you all have a fun weekend together.

-John

 

From: Greg   
To: John Watson

Subject: Re: (none)

John -

Thanks for the email. It’s good to know that you arrived. The girls say hi. Well, Annie says hi, at least. I think Katherine’s a bit upset her Uncle John wasn’t here for their visit, but Charlie seems to have mollified her a bit.

Speaking of which, were you particularly attached to those brown boots? It seems Charlie mistook them for his personal play toy.

Haven’t much to report here, I’m afraid. No snow in London yet, and the girls are bitterly disappointed by that.

Love,   
G

 

From: John   
To: Greg Lestrade

Subject: Re: (none)

When you say the girls are bitterly disappointed, you actually mean you are, right?

I’m sure we’ll get snow soon. And don’t worry about the boots. It was bound to happen at some point.

Tell Katherine that her Uncle John would much rather be in London with her than at some silly conference.

(He’d also much rather be in Uncle Greg’s bed, too, but you can leave that part out).

-J

 

From: Greg   
To: John Watson

Subject: Re: (none)

Miss you, too, Johnny. You’d best have next weekend off, because I don’t intend to let you leave the flat. Or the bedroom, really.

Love,   
G

 

From: John   
To: Greg Lestrade

Subject: Re: (none)

Consider it done.

Much love,   
-J

\----

Sherlock and Victor spend half the winter in Turkey, where the weather is mild and the hunting is prime.

Information found on the drug leader in Munich has led them, by way of Lyon, to Istanbul. Sherlock has come alive again now that he has obtained evidence of Moriarty and proof that Richard Brook is a fabrication. He is done waiting, and he is through with this careful dance. He means to strike, to _finish_ , to put an end once and for all to the network that has caused him so much distress.

Victor seems only too happy to help.

Sherlock has spent the last few months weeding out, from Moriarty’s numerous former clients--for they _are_ numerous once one knows how to look for them--the ones with the best connections to the network. He then, with Victor’s assistance, attempts to weed out which ones are mere passing contacts and which ones are members.

And the most important members... Well, he leaves them in Victor’s capable--and deadly--hands.

But this portion of the mission doesn’t eclipse all of their time in Turkey, for it would be unwise--and would raise far too many suspicions--if they made their kills every day. And looking back, Sherlock finds that what he remembers most vividly about their weeks in this country is not the mission but rather the moments in-between. Victor finds work as a technology consultant, and in the vast stretches of time that he has to himself between kills, he works out of their rented rooms. Sherlock’s time is mostly consumed by research and by trailing potential members of the network, but it doesn’t feel that way.

When Sherlock thinks on it, what stands out most are the nights in their rooms, sitting before the fire in a companionable silence. He remembers looking up from his laptop and glancing at Victor, who is stretched out on the sofa with a book propped up on his stomach and an arm behind his head, reading.

He remembers most the peace; he remembers the companionship. He remembers how easy, how _right_ , everything feels.

It terrifies him.

\----

Sherlock pauses outside Victor’s room one night, his lover’s name on his lips and a hand on the door. It’s open a few inches, enough so that Sherlock catches a glimpse of Victor kneeling on the floor before the fireplace. His hands are on his thighs and his head is bowed; though his lips aren’t moving, Sherlock recognises the pose. 

Victor is praying.

Sherlock hesitates, and then lets his hand fall to his side. He doesn’t move, though, and continues to watch Victor. The only light in the room comes from the fire, and shadows flicker across Victor’s form. The odd light highlights the lines on his features, and adds at least a decade to his face. 

As Sherlock continues to watch, Victor opens his eyes and makes the sign of the cross. He lifts his head, gazing into the flames, and absently fingers his Saint Christopher pendant. 

“You can come in. It’s all right,” he says at length. Sherlock hesitates, and then pushes open the door. He pauses on the threshold.

“I didn’t realise you still...” Sherlock trails off, waving a hand vaguely. Victor rocks back on his heels and rises to his feet in one fluid movement. 

“Every night,” he says. “For the people I’ve killed. Did you need something?”

“You never said.”

Victor’s mouth quirks. 

“You aren’t my father confessor,” he says. “And I don’t have the luxury of confiding in one. This will have to do.”

“You’re looking for forgiveness.”

Victor considers him for a moment.

“Aren’t we all?” he says flatly. He rakes a hand through his hair and then braces his hands on his hips. “But no, that’s not what this is about. I pray for their souls; I hope that they know peace in death as they didn’t in life. I hope they know my regret. I can’t hope for forgiveness.”

“And as to your own,” Sherlock searches for a better word and finds none, _“soul?”_

Victor’s smile is resigned.

“There was never any hope for that,” he says gently. “Now. What did you want to talk about?”

\----

They’re in bed, Victor stretched out on his stomach while Sherlock idly traces the lines carved into his back. It was in this country that Victor received the wounds, and though they occurred years ago Sherlock treats them as though they are new. He presses his lips to each one; memorizes the feel of them beneath gentle fingertips. He maps Victor’s back, from his shoulder blades to the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, and after many long, patient minutes Victor finally stirs.

“What’s got into you, hey?” he murmurs, rolling over. Sherlock merely kisses him in response, because he cannot put voice to his quiet fury. Victor was injured, Victor was _tortured_ , and he wasn’t there to stop it.

They trade lazy kisses for some time longer, Sherlock lying half-sprawled over Victor and Victor’s hand on the side of his neck. In truth, he’s not sure of how much time passes, but eventually--far too soon--Victor pulls away. He kisses Sherlock’s forehead as he slides from the bed. 

“Happy Christmas,” Victor murmurs against Sherlock’s skin before he departs, his pendant brushing Sherlock’s shoulder as he leans down to deliver a final kiss.

Later, long after the faint shuffling in Victor’s room has ceased, Sherlock remains awake still. He realises now how easy it would be to become used to this--hell, it’s already happening. This is the life that’s been denied him for four years, and he would give near everything to have it back again.

He never loses himself so completely as when he’s around Victor; nothing else makes him so irrational, and there’s no one else on the planet who makes him forget himself so fully.

It is utterly frightening.

Sherlock can almost hear John’s voice at the back of his mind.

_ That’s the whole point, Sherlock. _

He rolls over and faces the window, watching as lazy flakes of snow drift through the faint orange glow of the lamp outside.

It’s Christmas Eve, and everything is silent.

\----

They travel from Turkey to Austria, as it is the fourth location on Irene Adler’s list.

Victor eliminates two of Moran's contacts while Sherlock, his hand fully healed now, handles a further three.

They manage it unmolested.

It is too easy.

Sherlock is at the hotel when Victor comes back from his second kill, and from a glance Sherlock knows that it went well--as well as these things can go, at least. Victor appears unharmed, though perspiration has broken out across his forehead and his lips are unusually colourless. He says nothing to Sherlock as he opens the hotel room door and then slips into the bathroom. Sherlock does not bother to suppress his sigh of irritation; he is growing increasingly tired of Victor's moods these past few days, and his reluctance to do these necessary tasks. Victor, if he hears, ignores him.

Sherlock peels off his own jumper, which he had worn over an expensive button-down that is not too different from his usual style. Victor is running the shower, and Sherlock turns on the television. He turns to a news programme and then resumes his routine while mentally translating the German reports. There is nothing of particular interest, Sherlock finds. A local robbery; a local sports report. No word about two men going on a killing spree around Europe.

Sherlock unbuckles his belt and pulls it off, wrapping it mindlessly around his hand while the reporters drone on. He then sets it on top of the folded jumper and begins to unbutton his shirt.

Victor emerges from the bathroom, hair damp and skin glistening with water, a towel wrapped around his waist. His torso is a map of healing bruises and cuts, every mark in various stages of healing. Sherlock finds his gaze slipping from the television back to Victor as his friend rummages through his bag, muscles rippling down his arm with every movement.

When it finally becomes apparent that Victor is not going to say anything, Sherlock breaks the silence.

"I take it you were successful?" he says tersely, irritated at having to be the one to bring it up. Victor snorts.

"He's dead, yes," he says shortly.

It is too much. Sherlock has been running on adrenaline and nicotine patches for days, and for the first time in _weeks_ , his mind has been _alive_. Turkey was dull, colourless, listless, his entire existence reduced down to the size of their rooms, his mind shriveling with each passing day while Victor got to handle all of the eliminations.

Austria has been a breath of fresh air, a spark of light amid unending tedium, and yet Victor's endlessly sour moods have been grating on his already-fragile nerves. Sherlock is holding the belt before he realises that he's snatched it up off the bed, and hurls it at a spot on the wall just to the left of Victor's shoulder. It hits, buckle first, with a _crack_ , and then slides to the floor. Victor freezes in his tracks, and then drags murderous eyes to Sherlock's face.

"What," he says, low and dangerous, "was _that?”_

Sherlock has him up against the wall before Victor can react, and lays an arm across his neck. He grabs Victor's left wrist in his free hand and pins it above his head. Victor drops his towel, fisting his free hand into Sherlock's shirt.

_ “You,”  _ Sherlock growls, "are insufferable."

"You aren't exactly a ray of sunshine, either, smartarse," Victor snaps. “What the fuck is this about?”

_ “Why _ can't you see that this is necessary?” Sherlock snaps. “These eliminations need to be done. _I_ need them to be done."

"And that's what worries me," Victor says gravely. “You’re enjoying them too much. These kills are necessary, yes, but I don’t relish them. _You_ shouldn’t, either.”

Sherlock releases him abruptly and steps back, curling his lip. "I never should have brought you along."

Victor grabs a pair of trousers and puts them on. He then braces his hands on his hips and meets Sherlock's fierce gaze unwaveringly.

"And where would you be otherwise?" he snaps. "Dead, most likely, and your friends right along with you. You _know_ what you're like, Sherlock, when you're alone. No one else thinks the way you do, and sometimes you forget that."

"Believe me, Victor, I am quite aware of my isolation," Sherlock says tightly, Victor's words twisting in his stomach. "But don't make the mistake of pitying me for it. I have never wanted anything other than to be left alone."

Victor's gaze loses some of its intensity. "I don’t think that’s quite true. What do you call us, then? What do you call John Watson?"

_ “Us,”  _ Sherlock snarls. "What right do you have to speak of _us?_ We ended four years ago, when you _died_ and didn't have the courtesy to tell me that it had all been a mistake!"

"Sherlock -"

"You were _dead,_ you were _gone_ , you _weren’t coming back_!” Sherlock curls his hands into fists, fighting the urge to strike something. His nails dig into his palms and he can feel the skin break. He imagines the blood spilling forth from the tiny wounds, snaking in rivulets down his hands. 

_ Blood. Blood on his hands, blood that was Victor’s _ .   
  
“I only ever wanted to be alone,” Sherlock says, suddenly quiet, “until you came along. And then I wanted nothing more than to  be  with you; exist  as  you. Live as one. I wanted to crawl inside your ribcage and exist alongside your heart; I wanted to bleed into your brain and meld myself against you, do you  get  that?”   
  
Even if he doesn’t, not fully, Victor is the only person on this Earth who can even come close to understanding.   
  
“But you left me, Victor!" Sherlock bellows.  "You  died ."   
  
“I know, but Mycroft -”   
  
“ _Sod Mycroft.”_ Sherlock sucks in a tremulous breath and is instantly reminded of the death rattle, of Victor’s struggle for air and his final breath, drawn while Sherlock--futilely--tried to stop the bleeding.   
  
“He was doing his job, Sherlock. It was in the best interests of the country that - ”   
  
“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps, interrupting the excuse that he is so very tired of hearing. “You told me back in France that Mycroft sent you away to complete a mission. _Then_ you told me he sent you away in order to keep me from falling into Moriarty’s employ. But none of that truly explains why you stayed away! _Why did you stay dead, Victor?”_   
  
He expects a myriad of explanations, and is prepared to cut each one of them down. _You would have moved on_ , Victor will say, _and I didn’t want to interfere_. Or, _Mycroft would have made it impossible for me to return._   
  
But when Victor sags, the strength going from his limbs, and says, “Oh, hell, Sherlock. Because it was my idea,” Sherlock is stunned into speechlessness.   
  
“Your... _what?_ ” he hisses, going cold with Victor’s words. Victor sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair, mussing it. He reaches for a shirt and puts it on with agonizing slowness.    
  
“It was my idea to... to stay dead. To stay away from you. Not Mycroft’s.”   
  
Ice slides into Sherlock’s stomach.    
  
“You’re lying,” he says flatly. Victor shakes his head.   
  
“Come now, Sherlock,” he says, weary. “Do you really think there’s any force on Earth that could have kept me from you? The only way I could stay away is if I chose to. You must know that. You must have guessed it long ago.”   
  
“No,” Sherlock says forcefully, though which of them he’s trying to convince is unclear. Victor sighs.   
  
“I made enemies, Sherlock. Enemies who knew my face, who knew my name... who knew my life.” He fixes Sherlock with a grave look. “You remember the death threats.”   
  
“Amateurs,” Sherlock sneers.    
  
“Some of them, yes. Not all. I didn’t share the worst with you. And I take it Mycroft never shared with you the two attempts on my life prior to the car accident. It was part of the job; I accepted that. So did you.” Victor’s jaw tightens. “But then... then their attentions turned to you.”   
  
“They threatened my life.” Sherlock isn’t surprised. He’s impressed that Victor managed to keep it from him, but it’s a logical escalation of the initial death threats.   
  
Victor nods, his eyes bright.    
  
“Yes. And so I went to Mycroft. I went to Mycroft and  I _begged_ for him to do something; anything.”   
  
“You don’t beg,” Sherlock says dully.    
  
“I do when your life is on the line.” Victor sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, hands on his thighs, toe tapping the carpet absently. “Mycroft asked me what I would be willing to do, and I told him _anything_. I would do anything to keep you safe. He then told me to give him some time to come up with a plan. But before he could, his hand was forced, and he had to make the best he could out of a bad situation.”   
  
“The car crash was deliberate,” Sherlock ventures.   
  
Victor nods slowly.   
  
“Yes. And I wasn’t the target,” he says, looking at Sherlock pointedly. He then hangs his head, his eyes fixed on a spot on the carpet. “Back in France, I told you it wasn’t my idea to leave you. That wasn’t a lie, Sherlock. Mycroft took advantage of the car crash and decided to start the Bolivia mission early. But once it was completed, I realised that the best way to keep you safe was to stay dead for a time. You would think me gone forever, but then so would my enemies. And they would then take their attentions away from you.”   
  
“Why did you keep working for him?”   
  
“Mycroft? Because he was my last connection with you, of course I wasn’t going to give that up,” Victor says brusquely. And then he sighs. “My initial plan was to lay low for a few years after Bolivia; to give Mycroft time to root out the threats that he could. I helped him remotely, and together we eliminated nearly all the threats.”   
  
“Nearly?” Sherlock asks, his voice low.   
  
“Much as we like to pretend otherwise, your brother is not omniscient. His resources are powerful, but not infinite,” Victor says, his voice quiet and without inflection. “After a time, it became apparent it wouldn’t be enough. There were a few threats we could not dispense with. Even if I returned to England and left Mycroft’s employ, some of the enemies I had made before would still be out there, waiting to strike. But if I was dead, they would have no one to exact revenge on. There would be no point. Don’t you see? It occurred to me then that the only way to truly _protect you_ was by staying away.”   
  
“You’re lying,” Sherlock says firmly. “Again. What does he have on you, Victor? What keeps you in his employ?”   
  
Victor gives a sharp, bitter laugh.    
  
“You just can’t accept that he cares for you, can you? There are precisely two things on this Earth that Mycroft Holmes would go to any lengths to protect - you, and his country. He disliked deceiving you for those first few years, but it was for your own good. And, when I explained to him why I wanted to stay dead... well, he disliked that, too, but he understood.”   
  
“Why would you do something so absurd?” Sherlock demands. “You _know_ that I have no fear of death.”   
  
“But I have fear of _yours,”_ Victor hisses. “Sherlock, I am not nearly as strong as you are. I cannot fathom - I cannot _imagine_ \- a world where you don’t exist. I can’t. I won’t. And as _awful_ as it was - as awful as it _is_ \- I’d much rather us be separated and know that you’re alive out there somewhere. Living. Being _safe_. Your well-being precludes my happiness.”   
  
“And my own, it would seem,” Sherlock snaps. Victor blinks, appearing taken aback for a brief moment. “Sixteen years I’ve known you, Victor, and never _once_ did I regret having met you. Needless to say, that has changed.”   
  
“Don’t,” Victor says wearily. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s not much different than what you’re doing to your friends right now. Surely you can see that. The only difference is... I _can’t_ return home. Right now, it looks as though it is within your power to bring down Moriarty’s network. It’s not within mine to dispense with my own enemies. I’ve tried. Mycroft has tried. But there are some things that simply cannot be accomplished.”   
  
“You gave up.”   
  
“The logical option was to postpone my personal vendetta and set down roots somewhere; I thought you of all people would appreciate that.” Victor says, his tone quickly becoming strained. “I worked various jobs for Mycroft as a way of staying in touch with him, and periodically we would discuss new leads. They never went anywhere. And with every inquiry I risked discovery, which would have destroyed everything I had done to keep you safe. So I backed off after a time. I began to accept that we would probably never see each other again. So, yes, I died. Yes, I left you.”   
  
Sherlock looks sharply away, each sentence a white-hot stab to his gut. Victor goes on, regardless.    
  
“I would do it all over again in an _instant_ , if necessary.” Victor blows out a harsh breath between his teeth. “You asked once if I would come home, if I could. Yes, I would; that’s not a lie.”   
  
“But,” Sherlock says.    
  
“But I’m not going to,” Victor says quietly. “When this is all over--if we manage to bring down the rest of the network--I won’t be coming back with you. Right now, it’s too much of a risk.”   
  
“You’ve known this all along.” Sherlock bites the inside of the cheek so hard he tastes blood. “You were never going to come back.”   
  
“No,” Victor admits.   
  
“You’re a coward, Victor,” Sherlock snarls at him.    
  
“My actions kept you safe,” Victor says calmly. “If they make me a coward as well, so be it, that’s what I am. Gladly. I won’t apologise for trying to protect you.”   
  
Before Sherlock can respond, there is a rustle outside the door, and a piece of paper slides underneath it. Sherlock snatches it up and thrusts it into Victor's hands before throwing open the door and dashing down the hallway.   
  
_ “Carl!” _ Victor bellows after him, using Sherlock’s alias, but Sherlock ignores him. In seconds, he’s down the stairs and out on the pavement, chest heaving, and there is not another soul in sight. Whoever slipped the paper under their door has vanished, and Sherlock slams the palm of his hand against the brick wall of the building in frustration.    
  
Victor doesn’t say anything when Sherlock comes back up to the room. He hands the paper over wordlessly. Sherlock glances at the piece of paper and realises it is a photograph. It takes him a moment to recognize the building, and longer still to place the flames.   
  
_ Johannesburg. _   
  
Sherlock flips the photograph over, dread welling up in his throat. There is one word on the back, written in a methodical hand.   
  
_ Run. _


	14. Chapter 14

Victor blinks, and they are in Belgium.

They traveled to the country separately, Sherlock by air and Victor by land, and they arrive at a rendezvous point just outside Brussels. They find a tiny room of a frequented hostel, and lay low for a night while voices and laughter swirl around them. Hiding amidst a crowd; Victor hopes it will work. 

"But how did they _find_ us?" Sherlock hisses. They are sharing a pallet, bags piled up in one corner of the room and clothing discarded in another. The walls are paper-thin, more a pretense than anything else, and Victor is sure every word is audible.

Victor hushes him. "You've asked that at least a dozen times already. I _don’t_ know. And keep your voice down. The _real_ question is, how do we keep up the work now?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"We're not hunting anymore," he says quietly. Somewhere nearby, a baby wails and its mother tries to soothe it. "We're running."

\-----

They leave the hostel under cover of night and plan to travel on foot into Brussels, in an effort to conserve their resources and limit the number of people who will see them traveling together.

The winters are moderate in Belgium, but even so the days are cool and the nights are usually downright uncomfortable. They take shelter where they can - sometimes in abandoned buildings, if they’re lucky, but more often than not they find themselves bedding down in alley doorways, which at least keep away the wind but not the cold. 

On the third night, they seek shelter underneath a stone bridge. Victor adjusts his coat, pulling it tighter around his body and crossing his arms across his chest in an effort to keep out the chill. He’s slept rough before, and in more unsavory conditions than this, but it’s been years. He is not as young as he used to be, and isn’t _that_ a terrifying thought. 

Sherlock opens his bag the moment they are settled and begins rooting around in it. He pulls out an apple and produces a penknife from his pocket. 

“Where did you get that?” Victor huffs in disbelief. He can’t recall the last time they had fresh fruit. Their food supplies have run thin these past few days, and he estimates it’s been close to twelve hours since they last ate. It’s been even longer since they had a shower, and Victor can feel the itch of the stubble on his face. Even Sherlock’s jaw is shadowed.

“Nicked it,” is all the answer Sherlock gives. He slices off a piece and offers it to Victor. 

“Thanks.”

He nibbles at it tentatively, resisting the urge to devour it in one go. Sherlock slices off a second piece.

“Come back with me,” he says quietly, matter-of-factly. He takes a bite of his piece of apple and chews slowly. 

Victor feels his heart plummet, and suddenly he isn’t hungry any longer. He accepts another piece of the apple wordlessly, but doesn’t eat right away. Sherlock hasn’t spoken of Victor’s revelation since that final night in Austria, as Victor has had no desire to bring it up again. But he realises that he cannot run forever, not from this, and that this conversation was inevitable.

“Sherlock,” he says quietly, pleading, but finds he has nothing to say after that. 

“It would seem to me,” Sherlock says flatly, “that you are being needlessly self-sacrificing. Your intentions are good, but misguided. Foolish. You say you don’t want to live in a world where I am dead because of you, but for all intents and purposes, that _is_ the life you’ve been living. And never once did you take my own desires into account.”

“I won’t be responsible for your death.”

“And you will not be. If I die, it won’t be at your hands. It will be no one’s fault but the killer’s. For God’s sake, Victor, you never were one to indulge in hypotheticals. You cannot even be certain this will happen.” Sherlock sighs through his nose. “But don’t for a moment think that I don’t understand your fear. I’m not a believer, like you are. There is no hell. But there _is_ a hell on Earth, Victor, and that is being told that you are never coming home again. You have imagined the worst; I have lived it. So I propose this: come back with me. Victor Trevor can stay dead and buried, as you’d intended. Come back as the man I found in France. I don’t care what name you go by so long as, at the end of the day, you are still _you_.”

Victor balls his hand into a fist, fighting tremors that have nothing at all to do with the cold.

“You think I’ve never thought of that before? Wiping my name, my past? Becoming someone new just so I could stay at your side?” He shakes his head. “It’s still a risk.”

“It’s always a risk. _Come back with me.”_

He can’t do it, he _shouldn’t_ do it, not after all he’s worked for throughout the years. Four years of hiding, four years of odd jobs and crushing loneliness. Four years of not knowing how Sherlock was doing, only knowing that he was safe and alive. He can’t throw away those years; he can’t have them be for nothing.

But Victor knows what Sherlock wants to hear, he knows what answer he _wants_ to give, and he has prayed for forgiveness innumerable times over the past several months. What is one more prayer; one more transgression?

This one hurts more than all the others combined. Nonetheless, Victor closes his eyes and gives a tight nod.

  
“Yes.”   
  
\-----   
  
They find a tiny flat in Brussels and pay cash with the last of Mycroft's money so as not to leave any more of a paper trail than is strictly necessary. Victor cuts Sherlock's hair again, and Sherlock dyes his in return. They find work, and for some weeks do little more than work and sleep. Victor nearly always arrives back at the flat long after Sherlock; Sherlock, in return, rises long before Victor in the morning and is gone by the time Victor wakes.   
  
Sherlock continues to research, to hunt down leads and make connections that Victor can only guess at, but after the close call in Austria he is not about to make any moves. It grates on him, though, that much Victor can see. He grows more and more irritable with each passing day, confined to this mundane and repetitive existence so close--and, at the same time, so far--from his home.   
  
Victor comes back one day to find Sherlock at the table, ensconced in his research. It is the same sight that greets him every day after work, but something about this time is different. Sherlock is gnawing on the end of a pen in agitation and attacking the keys of his keyboard with more force than is necessary. He starts at the sound of the door opening and closing, and Victor can see the hard muscles of his jaw working in irritation as he grinds his teeth.   
  
Victor says nothing to him, knowing that Sherlock is better off left alone when he enters one of his black moods. He heats up dinner and makes two cups of tea. The one he sets at Sherlock’s elbow goes untouched.   
  
Later, when the fire in the fireplace has burned itself out and Victor is reaching the end of his book, Sherlock finally sighs and pushes the laptop away. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and then stands. He paces over to the window and looks out onto the dark street below.   
  
“Sherlock -”   
  
_ “Don’t.” _   
  
Victor blinks, taken aback by the vehemence in Sherlock’s voice.    
  
“I was just going to say,” Victor says slowly, “that you might want to take a break -”   
  
“A _break_ ,” Sherlock snarls. “A break from _what_ , I’ve been doing nothing for _days_.”   
  
Victor snorts.   
  
“God, don’t even start, you sound like my father.”   
  
Sherlock grunts.   
  
“Your father’s been dead for two years; he’s hardly got to worry about _tedium_ anymore, does he?”   
  
The words suck the breath from Victor’s chest.   
  
_ “What?” _   
  
Sherlock turns from the window. He blinks rapidly, seeming to come back to himself.    
  
“You didn’t know.”   
  
“I wasn’t allowed to know anything about home, remember?” Victor spits out. He draws a shuddering breath, hating out his voice skitters up the scale in his shock. “Not about you, not about him, not about _anyone_. Jesus fucking - is there anything else I should know? You didn’t spend the years getting a leg over with Seb Wilkes, did you, running back into his arms the moment I was gone?”   
  
_ “Victor,”  _ Sherlock snaps, looking appalled. Victor passes a hand over his eyes, too shaken by the news to offer an apology.    
  
“Was it quick? My father’s death, I mean.”   
  
Sherlock regards him heavily for a moment, as though unsure about how Victor might react, and then slowly shakes his head. Victor nods to himself.   
  
“Good.”   
  
He turns on his heel and leaves the room.    
  
  
Victor stays out on the flat’s balcony for near half the evening. Sherlock knows better than to go after him, ignoring the John-voice in the back of his head that tells him to do otherwise. Victor isn’t ordinary, and he wouldn’t want the comfort that Sherlock doesn’t know how to provide.    
  
But then a light mist begins to fall, and after that a gentle rain, and still Victor doesn’t come back inside. Sighing, Sherlock picks up his coat from off the back of a chair and goes to join him.    
  
Victor is sitting on the ground, his back against the wall and his legs crossed in front of him. Sherlock drapes the coat over him and then sits beside him with a soft grunt. Victor doesn’t acknowledge his presence, but his eyes are red-rimmed and blank, and Sherlock finds he must say something.   
  
“You hated your father.”   
  
It makes little sense to him why Victor would be grieving such a man, when surely he should be grateful that someday he will return to a country where his cruel father can no longer terrorize him.   
  
“Yeah,” Victor says with a mirthless, wet laugh. “Yeah, fucking Christ, did I ever.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
Victor finally stirs, shifting so that he can slide into the coat. He wraps it firmly around himself and then crosses his arms across his chest. It isn’t enough, Sherlock sees. Now that Victor has finally acknowledged the uncomfortable chill in the air, his body trembles of its own accord.    
  
“I know you don’t,” he says quietly.    
  
“Then explain.”   
  
Victor presses the back of his hand under his nose for a moment.   
  
“I’m not sorry he’s dead,” he says at last. “I’m sorry that he’s the only father I’ll ever know.”   
  
“You have always known that he would never accept who you are,” Sherlock points out.    
  
“But up until the moment he died, there was always hope he would change.”   
  
“Was there?” Sherlock asks skeptically.   
  
“Did he?” Victor responds, finally turning to look at Sherlock. Sherlock, taken aback by the sorrow etched into Victor’s face, suddenly regrets that the only answer he can give is a small shake of his head.    
  
“Whether he went to the grave hating who his son was or embracing it, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead,” Sherlock tries, unsure of how else to erase the pain from Victor’s features. “It doesn’t _matter_ anymore.”   
  
Victor presses his fingertips to the corner of his eye. They come away wet, and he stares at them for a moment before rubbing the liquid away.   
  
“Sometimes,” he says finally, his voice dull, “I forget that there are things in this world you’re never going to understand. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”   
  
He pushes himself to his feet and goes back into their rooms.   
  
  
There had been a time, Sherlock knew, when Victor had worshipped his father, and when the elder Trevor had doted on his son. Victor’s mother was long-deceased by the time he and Sherlock met, and his father was all he had. Henry Trevor had treated his son well, allowing him full run of the estate for weeks on end while he traveled for business, something that Victor and Sherlock had taken advantage of for an entire month one summer.    
  
But then came a vile Christmas holiday, and though Sherlock never had managed to get Victor to tell him outright what had been said, it wasn’t difficult to piece together the fact that the elder Trevor wasn’t keen on his only son bestowing affections on those of his same gender--a preference that Victor had never bothered keeping a secret at school. Henry Trevor liked even less the rumours that reached his ears through various social circles that Victor had taken a lover from an old, prominent family.    
  
The months that followed were brutal on Victor and unpleasant for Sherlock, whose own kindly father had died when he was a boy. He therefore could provide no advice on the matter that Victor deemed comforting or satisfactory, and between that and Victor’s drinking, they were nearly driven apart.   
  
He cannot go through this again.    
  
Victor takes a blazing shower, so long and so hot that when he finally emerges from the bathroom, steam billows out in his wake. He looks, if possible, even worse than before--his eyes are sunken and his skin is abnormally-pale. When he slides into the bed, Sherlock joins him.   
  
There are certain things that are expected of him, Sherlock knows, as one-half of this pair. Certain things that Victor has never demanded of him, but that shouldn’t mean he doesn’t need them. And while Sherlock doesn’t quite understand the need for them--nor how they will help--he nonetheless finally yields to the John-voice and tucks himself up against Victor’s back. He slips an arm around Victor’s waist, tugging him closer, holding him in a half-embrace. After a moment of hesitation, Victor sinks back against him.   
  
“I may not understand why you feel this particular death so keenly,” Sherlock says into the back of his head, “but don’t for a moment think I am incapable of comprehending loss. I am... sorry for this one, Victor. And for all you never knew.”   
  
Victor gives a stilted jerk of his head, a broken nod that indicates he’s heard. Sherlock kisses his fabric-clad shoulder, and they finally fall asleep just before dawn.   
  
\----   
  
The next day, Sherlock arrives back at the flat well before Victor, and finds the silence suffocating. He escapes back out into the late-afternoon bustle for some noise. He walks the city for two solid hours, trying to physically exhaust his mind since he is unable to do so mentally, and arrives back at the flat just as Victor is coming up the stairs.   
  
They nod at one another in greeting and Victor opens the door. He steps over the threshold and stops dead in his tracks, flinging out an arm. Sherlock turns a curious eye on him, and then scans the rest of the room, wondering what he’s.   
  
“USB stick,” Victor says in a clipped voice. “Where is it?”   
  
“My pocket.”   
  
Victor nods absently, eyes darting around the room. “Good.”   
  
“What is it?”   
  
Victor shakes his head slowly.   
  
“I’m not sure, but something isn’t right. It... _feels_ off.”   
  
Sherlock raises an eyebrow incredulously.    
  
_ “Feels?” _   
  
“Yes.” Victor doesn’t react to his disbelief. “I can’t explain, I just... If I had to put it into words, I’d say it _sounds_ different.”   
  
“You think someone’s been in here?”   
  
Victor’s face is a mix of confusion and frustration. “I - I don’t know. But something’s changed, and I don’t know what.”   
  
Sherlock nods, brisk. They need to do an inventory of their most important possessions, and quickly. He darts into the bedroom while Victor takes the main room. They gather wallets and laptops; keys and papers. Sherlock keeps the USB stick on him at all times, so that is one less thing to worry about.   
  
Victor comes into the bedroom just as Sherlock has dropped to his knees in order to check under the bed.   
  
“Sherlock -” he starts, breaks off, and then suddenly barks, “Get away from there!”   
  
Sherlock leaps back. Victor remains in the doorway, and they stare at one another from across the room. Victor holds up a hand, signaling him to be still.   
  
“What is it?”   
  
“Whatever it is,” Victor says, slowly, “it’s louder in here.”   
  
Sherlock can’t hear anything, but he had learned long ago to defer to Victor’s judgment in matters such as these. He utilizes his senses in a way that Victor can’t, but Victor’s have always been superior to his own. It is simply his nature, one of the many things that made him such a valuable asset to Mycroft.   
  
Victor slowly walks over to the bed and drops into a crouch. He peers beneath it for a moment, and then pushes himself to his feet and backs away.   
  
“Right,” he says, still holding out his hand at Sherlock, his eyes now fixed on the bed as though he’s spotted a hornet’s nest, “we need to leave. No! Slowly, and steer as far clear of that as you can. Come on.”   
  
Sherlock hugs as close to the wall as he can and makes a quick exit, Victor on his heels.   
  
“Bomb?” he ventures, and Victor nods sharply.   
  
“Set to a timer, but it’s a pressure bomb. Any vibration could set it off. C’mon, grab what you can carry and let’s get the hell out of here.”   
  
“How long do we have?” Sherlock asks, grabbing his bag and stuffing it full of their essential items. Their clothes and other miscellaneous items are in the other room; they’ll have to be abandoned.   
  
“Just under two minutes. Where’s your laptop?”   
  
There is a shout from next door just as Victor stoops to scoop his own computer up off the floor, and he freezes. Sherlock mutters, _“Damn and hell,”_ under his breath and they share an uneasy glance. Their neighbors are a young couple--newly married, Sherlock surmises--but what benefit entering such a union had for them, he cannot tell. They argue constantly, with fists more often than words, and not a night goes by when they aren’t fighting. It is both baffling and noisy, and the latter now has the potential to prove fatal.   
  
“Sod this,” Victor says vehemently, slinging his bag over his shoulder and making for the door. “Let’s -”   
  
But Sherlock slips into the kitchen, searching for that one last file folder, the one with the remainder of their feigned identities. He finds it on the table and stuffs it into his bag just as there is a _crash_ from next door. The walls are paper-thin, and the pans hanging from the ceiling in their small kitchen rattle and _clang_ as they are jostled by the vibrations.   
  
_ “Sherlock!’  _ Victor bellows. “There are only _seconds_ left, you have to -”   
  
A flash of white light at the corner of Sherlock’s vision drowns out the rest of Victor’s words. Something slams into his chest, knocking him to the ground effortlessly and holding him there until he passes out.   
  
He never hears the explosion.

  



	15. Chapter 15

The first time Sherlock wakes, someone is keening. He wants to tell them to stop, but his tongue feels too large for his mouth and his throat is aflame. When he tries to speak, nothing happens, and darkness steals over him again before panic can fully set in.

The second time Sherlock wakes, his back is throbbing and the fire has moved to the left side of his body. He asks for ice--or, at least, he thinks he does--but when no relief comes he realises that he is still voiceless. The keening has faded to a pathetic whimper, but all he wants is silence.

“Shh,” a voice says suddenly to his left, and something cold touches his brow. Sherlock tries to turn his head, but it’s as responsive as his voice, and he still can’t see. He feels a flash of indignation - _he’s_ not the one responsible for the noise - but is gone again before he can act on it.

Time passes, and he drifts, buffeted along by a steady current of agony. It both jolts him from his sleep and sends him crashing into unconsciousness as his overloaded brain tries desperately to defend his body against the onslaught.

It’s only when he cracks his bruised eyes open to see sunlight that Sherlock begins to realise that the disembodied voice was Victor.

And that he himself was the one screaming.

 

Victor wrings out a wet cloth over the basin and then lays it across Sherlock’s forehead.

“Fever’s gone up,” he says softly, and Sherlock nods slowly. He can feel that well enough for himself.

They are in an abandoned building some streets away from where their flat used to be. Sherlock’s not entirely clear on how Victor managed to get them both here, but apparently he was conscious and walking for some of it. Victor had got them out of the burning flat, and under cover of night they had slipped away with only the clothes on their backs and whatever Victor had managed to cram into his bag. Miraculously, the USB stick and both their laptops survived.

Sherlock had passed out halfway here--though his own recollection ends seconds before the explosion--and Victor had slung him over his shoulder and carried him the rest of the way. Victor hasn’t said as much, of course, but Sherlock can tell from his stiff gait and the way he favours his left shoulder that this is the case.

Neither of them escaped the explosion unscathed, but Victor’s injuries are superficial. Scratches mar the left side of his face and his clothes are singed, but he is at least mobile and functioning. Sherlock, who had thrown up his hands to protect his face at the last second, has several severe burns from the fire and scratches from flying debris. He has a deep gash on his thigh where he was cut by a piece of metal, and a wound on his hand that is already starting to fester. Victor was able to stop the bleeding and has dressed the wounds from what supplies he’s managed to scrounge up every time he leaves the building, but it’s quickly becoming clear that his efforts aren’t going to be enough.

Something touches his shoulder, and Sherlock jerks out of his wandering thoughts.

“Sorry,” Victor tries to soothe, rubbing a palm gently over Sherlock’s arm, “it’s only me. Can I look at your hand? It’s about time I changed the dressing.”

Sherlock shakes his head before he can stop himself, and Victor sighs. It wasn’t a request.

“I have to, Will,” he whispers brokenly. “I know it hurts.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock croaks finally, his exhausted voice barely audible. “Just -”

“I know.” Victor produces a thick piece of cloth, torn from his own jacket, and puts it in Sherlock’s good hand. “Bite that. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Said that last time,” Sherlock mutters petulantly, but he does as he’s told and then looks away. Victor peels back the dressing as carefully as he can, but even the slightest movement sends bolts of pain shooting up Sherlock’s arm. Then the smell assaults him, a sharp scent that reminds him of sickly-yellow, and he knows the wound is worse today.

Victor does as he promised and binds Sherlock’s hand as quickly as he can. When he’s finished, Sherlock is gasping for breath and covered in sweat that’s not entirely from the fever, but at least he kept mostly silent this time. He’ll take what victories he can.

“How bad?”

“Not good.” Victor shrugs. He moves on to Sherlock’s thigh, and makes quick work of changing that dressing. That wound, at least, is clean and healing, even though it also is painful. “I’m not a doctor, Sherlock.”

“Closest thing we have... right now,” Sherlock says between heavy breaths. Victor wipes his face off for him.

“I can do a great many things, but becoming an expert on human anatomy overnight isn’t one of them.”

Sherlock knows what Victor’s about to suggest and shakes his head.

“No. We can’t afford it, Victor. Can’t you _see_ what’s happening here?”

“I see that you are in pain, and that you’re not getting better.” Victor sits back and pushes his hair out of his eyes. His face shines in the dim light from a lamp outside. There is no electricity in their refuge, nor any other amenity that might be considered comfortable. They have a roof, and that is all. They make their beds on the floor, amid their own clothing and whatever Victor has managed to gather from his few ventures outside. 

“We are being toyed with,” Sherlock says through gritted teeth. “They keep _finding_ us, and I don’t know how. We mustn’t... we _mustn’t_ let anyone know where we are. That bomb was planted for a reason. We must allow them to think us dead, as they’d intended us to be. Then we can continue with our mission, instead of running.”

Victor is quiet for a moment. 

“Perhaps,” he says at last, “but will you be alive to see that day?”

Sherlock has no answer for him.

 

The chills of fever are bad throughout the day, and Sherlock remains buried under blankets Victor has sought out for them. The boarded-up windows in their refuge keep out the sun and chill but also prevent circulation, and as a result the air is rank. Victor tends to Sherlock and their basic needs as best as he can during the day, and at night ventures out in search of food and various other supplies. He is resourceful, and they don’t go too hungry.

Well, in theory. The trouble is that Sherlock can’t keep down much of anything, and he drops weight rapidly as the days go by. The mere thought of food sickens him, and if he’s not retching because of the smell then he’s doing so due to the pain. Sometimes they go hand-in-hand, as with each re-dressing of his hand the wound is jostled, and it smells more like decay each time.

One morning, Sherlock opens his eyes to the golden hint of sunrise between the slats of the boarded windows and Victor leaning over him.

“Hey.” Victor sits back on his heels. “How are you feeling?”

The pain has spread to every corner of Sherlock’s body and makes its home deep in his bones. Even his teeth ache in their sockets. He tries to summon words to adequately describe his agony, and doubts they even exist. Instead, he croaks, “Water,” and Victor is able to at least tend to that need.

“I found someone to look at your hand,” Victor says as he pulls the glass away from Sherlock’s lips. “He’s waiting just outside.”

“Victor...” Sherlock whispers, but he lacks the strength to finish that sentence. The damage is done already; they’ll just have to deal with it.

“I’m going to have to undo this dressing,” Victor says. “I’m sorry.”

The smell is worse today, and Sherlock gags before he can clamp down on the reflex. Victor’s face remains impassive as he surveys the wound. When Sherlock tries to look, he angles his body to block Sherlock’s view and says, gruffly, “Best not.”

He lifts his head and says, “You can come in now.”

The man he’s brought is a doctor and a local, that much Sherlock can tell, but he can read nothing else about him through the cloud of fever that clogs his mind. He sports a neatly-trimmed beard and is perhaps a head shorter than Victor, and behind his glasses his eyes are kind.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demands warily as the man kneels in front of Victor, who is still cradling Sherlock’s hand.

“Your only hope, it would seem,” the man replies in fluent but heavily-accented English. “You may call me George.”

“That’s not your name,” Sherlock hisses as George touches his hand.

“Nor is yours James, I believe,” he comments mildly. “But I am not here to quarrel with you. How long ago did this injury occur?”

Victor tells him, and for some minutes they discuss how the injury came to be. Sherlock drifts as the conversation swirls around him, only partly paying attention. Victor blatantly fudges a few details--calls it a construction accident, though the burns are apparent on both of them--and the doctor does not call him out on it.

Finally, he turns to Sherlock with one question: 

“Can you move your fingers?”

Sherlock regards him heavily for a moment. Then he slowly shakes his head.

“Mm. I thought not.” George releases him, and Sherlock barely suppresses a pained whimper. “His fingers must go.”

Victor’s sharp, _“No,”_ is a reflex, and he voices what Sherlock is immediately thinking. George shrugs.

“Then that is your choice. But you can see for yourself that the wound has gone bad. If we don’t take the fingers now, soon it will be his hand. Then, his arm. After that, his life. Fingers seem a small price to pay, in the end.”

Sherlock stares at him a beat and then says, very quietly, “Damn you.”

“I did not injure your hand, Mr James.”

Sherlock looks away, and he feels Victor shift in surprise.

“You’re going to let him.”

“Problem?” Sherlock says harshly. “You said as much yourself, you are _not_ a doctor.”

“But -”

“But _what?”_ Sherlock snaps.

“The violin,” Victor says quietly, and Sherlock blinks. He looks at Victor in astonishment. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“Do you see a violin here?” he asks, harsher than he had intended, and then turns his eyes to George. “Take them.”

“I cannot -”

“What do you mean, you _can’t?”_

George shrugs. “That is something you must go to a hospital for.”

“Out of the question,” Victor says immediately.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you further. These are not proper operating conditions. I won’t have this man die on me because _you_ are afraid of a sterile building full of doctors.”

“Oh, if only you knew,” Victor mutters under his breath. “Believe me, we wouldn’t be here if the circumstances weren’t _completely_ out of our control. This is the best we can do.”

“I won’t -”

_ “Take them,”  _ Sherlock growls suddenly, balling his good hand into a fist, “or hand me a knife and I’ll do it myself.”

George gives a nervous smile. Victor, who knows that Sherlock isn’t joking, says, “Do it, or I’ll tell your wife about that young thing you’ve got hidden away in a flat on the other side of town. What is she, nineteen? Twenty?”

George pales spectacularly. “How -”

“Your shoelaces.”

Sherlock, who had been wondering the same thing, glances at the man’s shoes. Ah, yes. Of course.

He drags his eyes back up to George’s face and adds, “And how would your wife react to meeting your mistress’s child, I wonder.”

George sets his jaw, and Sherlock knows they have won.

It’s a hollow victory, at best.

“I’ll need to get some supplies,” he says stiffly, and Victor nods.

“Go. If you’re not back within the hour -”

“Yes,” George interrupts wearily. “I know.”

He leaves only silence in his wake.

Victor remains seated with Sherlock’s hand still resting on his lap. His gaze is drawn to the space between the boards on the windows where a bit of the outside world peeks through. Sherlock watches his eyes slide out of focus; as he tucks a hand into his pocket and begins to fiddle with his lighter.

“I lied,” he says abruptly. Victor drags his eyes back to Sherlock’s face with some difficulty.

“Hmm?” he asks, blinking as he is drawn from his thoughts. “What was that?”

“No,” Sherlock murmurs to himself, “not lied. Jus’...”

He waves a hand vaguely, the words escaping him with alarming speed. Victor touches his brow.

“Hush, Will,” he tries to soothe. “Just relax. It’ll... be over soon.”

But Sherlock shakes his head, struggling to find what he’d been meaning to say.

“Jasper,” he mutters. Victor frowns.

“What about him, Sher?”

“Told you that Lestrade took him in. Mostly true.” Sherlock involuntarily flexes the undamaged fingers on his left hand and is met with a bolt of white-hot pain. When that subsides, he finally manages to utter, “Lestrade took him in, because I couldn’t look after him. Tried. Couldn’t.”

He stares unseeingly at Victor’s knee, lacking the strength to lift his gaze to his lover’s face. How often had that _ridiculous_ dog rested his head there, dutiful and patient and reveling in the friendly fingers that scratched the scruff of his neck? He’d been loyal, which Sherlock could appreciate, and in this manner they had struck an uneasy truce after their first unpleasant meeting.

But on the night of Victor’s death Sherlock had found himself in the other man’s flat, covered in blood that wasn’t his and lacking a clear memory of how he had come to be there. Jasper, sitting under a table, had greeted Sherlock with what almost seemed to be a questioning _woof_ , and Sherlock, no longer in control of his body’s movements, had sunk to his knees beside the dog. He had buried first fingers and then his face into the dog’s soft fur-- _God, he even_ smelled _like Victor_ \--and Jasper, unbelievably, allowed it.

Lestrade had found them like that the next morning, and it had taken several minutes of careful persuasion to get Sherlock to release Jasper.

“He’ll come with us,” Lestrade had promised, half-supporting Sherlock’s weight as they stood. “Come on, lad, let’s get you home.”

“He stayed with me for three weeks after,” Sherlock tells Victor softly, and the pain of the memory overrides the real physical agony in his hand. “Before Lestrade decided it was enough.”

Because it hadn’t been the dog Sherlock wanted, not really, and once the original shock of the death wore off he started to resent the animal.

Victor curls a lock of Sherlock’s hair absently around his forefinger and says nothing. The room is stuffy today, even to Sherlock’s fever-chilled body, and the heat weighs heavily on his mind. With Victor’s fingers in his hair, he drifts; when he next is aware of his surroundings, the doctor is back, and Victor is squeezing his shoulder.

“Have faith, Will,” Victor murmurs while George begins arranging his supplies. “You will get through this. And I swear to you, I _will_ see you home.”

Victor presses Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock squeezes his in return, his eyes fixed on the pendant that has once again slipped from the collar of Victor’s shirt. 

And just as consciousness begins to fade from him again, Sherlock decides that, if he had faith in _anything_ , it would be Victor.

\----

When Victor opens his eyes the next morning, it’s to find that Sherlock is already awake. He sighs heavily through his nose and shifts, tightening his hold on Sherlock and hoping he will go back to sleep. George had assured him that the medication in Sherlock’s system would keep him asleep for several hours. Victor should have known that Sherlock’s past drug history would make him more resistant to the medication, and sends out a quiet thanks to whoever might be listening that Sherlock at least remained unconscious during the actual operation.

Sherlock is picking at the bandages that cover his left hand, but his movements are clumsy and uncoordinated, hampered by the arm that Victor has flung across his chest.

“Sher,” Victor whispers, but Sherlock ignores him. He pushes himself into a sitting position and takes Sherlock’s right hand in both of his. He asks gently, “What are you doing?”

Sherlock is still groggy from the drugs and lingering pain, but he manages a weak, “Need to see.”

“Not yet. You’ll have to wait for the wound to heal a little bit more first. You don’t want to risk opening it up again.”

Sherlock fixes him with bloodshot eyes.

“How many?” he asks finally.

Victor considers him a moment, and then holds up his hands. With his right hand, he covers the final two fingers on his left hand and a portion of his palm, demonstrating.

“These two,” he says quietly, “and about a centimeter below them. He thinks he got most of the infection that way, though. You... should be fine, in time. With any luck, you’ll have full range of motion in the rest of your fingers once the wound heals.”

“Luck,” Sherlock mutters. Victor rearranges the blankets around him, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate the _At least you’re still alive_ that tugs at his tongue.

“Go back to sleep,” he says instead, and finds that Sherlock has already done so.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonor, and emulating one another in honor; and when fighting at each other’s side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world.”_  
>  - _The Symposium_ , Plato

Three days later, Sherlock is up and walking on his own, albeit shakily. He keeps most of what he eats down, but his appetite is near non-existent due to the pain. It will be severe for about a week, according to George, and pain management immediately following the amputation is the best way to stave off future, chronic pain. He had given Victor a number of narcotic analgesics prior to his departure, as well as some antibiotics for any lingering infection, and as a result Sherlock sleeps most hours of the day. He doesn't ask how Victor managed to persuade George to hand over so much medication, nor how George managed to get his hands on them in the first place. And, truth be told, Sherlock finds that he doesn't much care. He has larger issues to worry about.  


Victor, as usual, is irritatingly rational about the whole situation.

“You’ve had a huge shock and there’s a good deal of medication in your system right now,” he says reasonably when Sherlock snarls about having slept yet another day away. “You need time to rest, so that the wound can heal properly.”

But Sherlock doesn’t want logic or reason, and he sneers at Victor’s words. Logic and reason had cost him an entire hand, for what good are three fingers if they can’t perform the duties of five?

A week after the amputation, Sherlock takes the bandages off. Victor comes back to their building to find him staring at what’s left of his hand, matted raw pink flesh the only sign of the fingers that used to be there.

“Idiot,” Victor says gently. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Sherlock says absently. “No, I don’t feel a thing.”

Victor allows him to examine the hand for several more minutes, and then says, “Come. Let’s get this wrapped again.”

“It doesn’t surprise you,” Sherlock says later. Victor hasn’t flinched once since this whole ordeal began. He’s barely twitched, even.

Victor gives a grim smile.

“I spent a month in hospital after the accident,” he says at last. “I had a number of operations; only two of them were on my neck. The others were for my shattered legs. It’s a miracle I kept them. I was bedridden most of the time. It cures you of any sense of modesty, I can tell you that, and any lingering uneasiness. I spent four weeks having glass dug out of me and having drainage tubes carry God knows what out of my body. I had a couple of nasty infections, and I think my legs are more metal than bone anymore.” He shrugs. “I don’t think there’s anything left out there about the human body that can surprise me. Or scare me off.”

“And after?

That part of Victor’s life is closed to him, like a book written in a foreign language. He can see that the evidence is there on Victor’s body, written all over him, but Sherlock can’t make sense of it.

Victor fixes him with a look Sherlock can’t decipher.

“Does it matter?”

_ Yes _ , John would say, and so that’s what Sherlock tells Victor, even though he’s not entirely sure why it should. But he wants to know, _needs_ to know. 

And John hasn’t steered him wrong yet.

Victor gives him another long look, peering at him through narrowed eyes, partly suspicious and mostly confused.

“The first year without you was the worst,” he says at last. “After that... Just got used to it, I suppose. It’s like my legs. The pain never truly goes away, but you learn to deal with it.”

He looks at Sherlock from under heavy lids, a furtive glance that slides away quickly to rest on the opposite wall, but it’s not quick enough to hide the open curiosity on his face.

“I stayed with Lestrade for a time.” Sherlock goes to wring his hands, a semi-conscious gesture he makes in times of unease, but the moment his right hand touches the bandage he jerks back as though burned, even though he registers no feeling whatsoever in the left. “I didn’t go to your funeral.”

“Started doing drugs?”

“Later on, yes.”

“What made you stop?”

“Wrong question.”

Victor nods to himself. “Of course. Who, then?” And then, before Sherlock can answer: “Ah, of course. Lestrade.”

“Yes.”

Victor leans back against the wall, Sherlock’s damaged hand still in his lap, and rubs his thumb absently over the bandage. 

“They keep finding us,” he says at last. “I doubt they know who we truly are, but they know that _someone_ is out there trying to hunt them down. First Greece, then Johannesburg; now this.”

“What are you getting at?” Sherlock asks sharply.

“We’ve been living under a grand delusion, Sherlock,” Victor says softly. “I think it’s time we talk about... what happens if we can’t complete this mission.”

“We die.”

“Before then.” Victor gives him a wry smile that turns bitter. “I think we need a better option than that.”

“What is it you’re proposing?” Sherlock sneers. “Hiding?”

“Yes,” Victor says quietly. “Not forever, though perhaps that might happen. If they get too close... we should at the least suspend the mission. Find some house, go into exile, and keep a low profile so that your friends may live. Did you still want to keep bees?”

Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief. 

“You want me to hide, as you did? Give up, as you did? No, that’s not an option,” he says harshly. “And I’ll not hear you mention it again.”

There is a long, heavy silence.

“Quite right,” Victor says at last. “Of course. It was... a foolish thought.”

He doesn’t bring it up again.

\----

They have to keep moving.

Sherlock knows this--he _knows_ this. But his body fights him at every turn, and even sitting up in the morning is a struggle. He can’t imagine walking down a flight of stairs, let alone around this city.

But he has to do it, or they will be discovered once more.

“Can you walk?” Victor finally asks one morning. They have been here too long already. Someone is bound to have seen Victor coming and going, no matter how careful he was about it, and they can’t afford that information falling into the wrong hands.

“Well enough,” Sherlock says, and it is a lie, but one that Victor allows to go unchallenged.

In the end, they find a building some streets away, and move there under cover of night. With Victor supporting most of Sherlock’s weight in addition to his bag, the distance takes them nearly two hours to cover. It is intolerable, and Sherlock can do nothing about it. He is pitifully weak and unsteady, and this time anger only makes him clumsy rather than sharpening his mind and senses.

They spend one night in the new building, and then move again. The next night, they do the same thing. By the end of the week, they are on their fourth building, and Victor deems that satisfactory for the time being.

One morning, Victor returns to the building as Sherlock is waking. He tosses a package in Sherlock’s lap and goes to a faucet in the far corner of the room, where he washes his face and hair. He doesn’t offer Sherlock help in opening the package, and says nothing as Sherlock manipulates the string tying it one-handed. It takes fully ten minutes for him to open it, but he does it on his own, and Victor nods curtly once he’s peeled back the paper.

“Saw those in a shop. Thought they suited you.”

Sherlock lifts one black leather glove out of the mass of paper, examining it. It’s nearly silken to the touch, flexible but tough as well. He works it onto his right hand, feeling the tautness of the material as it slides into place. It’s a perfect fit, and looks like a natural extension of his arm.

“I hope you used cash,” is all he can manage to say, and Victor snorts.

“What do you take me for? ‘Course I did.” He sits down on the ground, pulls off his boots, and then sheds his jacket. “All right, my motivations weren’t entirely altruistic. You’ve got a distinctive wound now. Very recognizable. You’re going to have to keep it out of sight as much as possible. Don’t call attention to it. But you can’t go through the rest of this mission one-handed--you’ve still got three fingers--so gloves seemed like the best solution. If you can’t keep the hand out of sight, at least keep it covered.”

Sherlock pours all of his concentration over the next few days into working with his damaged hand, trying to get it to a point where he can utilize it again. Victor stuffs the final two fingers of his left glove and sews the padding into place; so long as Sherlock doesn’t bend his fingers, when wearing the glove it appears as though that hand is whole.

He plucks the stitches out some days before they are supposed to be removed and starts to wear his gloves, now that there is no threat of his open wound rubbing against the inside of the left one. Victor doesn’t say anything for nearly half a week.

“You know, you don’t have to wear those around me,” he says finally. “I don’t care.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, but he keeps them on all the same.

They have been so fully thrown off the trail by this latest crisis that now, as Sherlock is on the road to recovery, it’s hard to know where to pick it up again. Victor makes the mistake of wondering aloud, after three sleepless nights of fruitless research, where the hell they’re supposed to go from here.

It is answered for him less than twenty-four hours later, when a note arrives with the dawn. It is slipped under their door and, as was the case in Johannesburg, the messenger is gone by the time one of them throws open the door and bolts after him.

“What’s it say?” Victor says breathlessly, breezing back into their room after the futile chase.

“Boa Vista,” Sherlock mutters distractedly. At the confused silence, he adds, “Brazil.”

Victor’s face darkens.

“What the hell are they playing at?” Victor growls, snatching the note from Sherlock’s hand and reading it in disbelief. “Brazil. _Brazil_.”

“You asked,” Sherlock says, lifting an eyebrow at him. “Someone answered.”

“You’re going to listen to this?” Victor brandishes the note angrily.

“Do we have a choice?” Sherlock snaps.

“I don’t _believe_ this. You utter fool.” Victor crumples the piece of paper and holds it in a clenched fist. “There are only two kinds of people that note could have come from: someone from inside Moriarty’s network, trying to lead us into a trap, or someone on our side, trying to help. And you know what? Both are equally dangerous.”

“You think I’m unaware of that?” Sherlock says angrily. “ _Christ,_ what kind of fool do you take me for?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

Sherlock sneers, “It’s a risk, of course it is, but what would you have us do instead - give up? Find some _house_ and live quietly, in secret, forever?”

A tremendous pause follows, and then Victor says, quietly, “You say that like it’s a terrible thing.”

Victor’s eyes are two orbs of light set deep in the shadows, and the weak lamp outside catches the lines of his face. He is worn at the edges, run down, and once again Sherlock is struck by the fact that he looks fully ten years older than his thirty-four years. Victor gives a small shake of his head and then says, “Apologies. You’re right, of course. That’s... an absurd idea.”

He looks away, turning from the light, and becomes a silhouette.

“We’re being toyed with, I hope you realise,” he continues, dully. “Every time we think we’ve escaped, they show us that they’ve known all along where we are.”

“They haven’t stopped us,” Sherlock points out.

“Not yet," Victor says bitterly. “No, they haven’t stopped us because we’re playing right into their hands, following their clues like trained animals. Moriarty’s people are probably laughing their arses off back in London. I’m sure we’re wonderful entertainment, running around at their every whim, and _would you take off those damn gloves already?”_

The room reverberates with the forcefulness of Victor’s words. He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, his other hand braced on his hip.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the ground. “I’m -”

He shakes his head, turns on his heel, and walks out of the building.

Sherlock’s dreams are unsettling that night, and the moments of wakefulness between them are equally uneasy. At dawn, he wakes to find that Victor has returned, though he isn’t sleeping.

“So,” he says as Sherlock blinks sleep from his eyes. “Brazil?”

Sherlock nods in agreement. “Brazil.”

His eyes search Victor’s face, but he can discern nothing about where his friend has been. He hasn’t been back for long, however, as the cool night air still clings to him like a lingering scent, and he’s tumbled onto the mattress with his boots still on.

Sherlock unfolds his arms and works his gloves off his hands, dropping them over the side of the mattress while Victor looks on in bemusement. Then he holds up what remains of his left hand. Victor stares at it for a beat, and then reaches out, sliding their fingers together and clasping the hand. He pulls it close and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s palm, lips brushing over the cobbled skin.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, and Victor’s eyes flick to him.

“Yes, what?”

“A house. With the bees. With you,” Sherlock says. “It wouldn’t be so bad.”

Victor pulls Sherlock close and kisses him again.

\----

The climate in Boa Vista is opposite that of the Amazonian region, and thus the fading spring is hot and dry when Sherlock and Victor arrive. With their knowledge of other languages they are able to scrape by amidst the predominantly Portuguese-speaking population, and they find accommodations on the top floor of a rickety building that is set at the end of a steep and winding street. The water is always cold in their rooms and electricity is uncertain at best, but it’s luxurious compared to Belgium.

Slowly, they begin to replenish their lost supplies and funds. The language barrier and lack of official documents makes finding work difficult, but thankfully not impossible. What Victor lacks in words he makes up for in charm and perseverance, and he is able to secure a labor-intensive job that leaves him pummeled and aching for the first few days as muscles that had fallen into disuse are woken once again. Within weeks, however, his shoulders have hardened and his arms have thickened, and there is a quiet power behind his every movement, thrumming just beneath the surface. Gazing at him, Sherlock is reminded sharply of university, and of Victor at the height of his rugby playing days.

Sherlock is conspicuous during the day, his gloves and new matching leather jacket incongruous with the breathless climate and unforgiving sun. He ventures out only when the sun has disappeared from the sky; when his outfit is less likely to attract attention. And that’s when he begins his work.

The city is large, but the note they had received in Belgium offers more clues than perhaps their mysterious benefactor had intended. That’s what Sherlock would like to believe, anyway. He can tell from the paper and the slant of the handwriting that it was composed by a doctor, though one who had stopped practicing many years ago, and that English is his native language.

Three nights frequenting the bars in Boa Vista turns up a middle-aged man whose medical practice in the U.S. had driven him into debt. Sherlock glances across the room, at the regular the bartender has indicated, and with one sweep of his eyes can fill in what the bartender likely doesn’t know - that the man went into debt, yes, but he got out of it by faking his death. It is a tired story, and one that Sherlock has heard or deduced so often by now that even looking at the man in question bores him. He turns away, back to his drink, and contemplates whether the risk of approaching the man directly is worth the potential benefits.

But then the bartender says, in his accented English, “You look a bit down on your luck.”

Sherlock, who has been posing as an American tourist, says, “Oh?” and feigns interest.

The bartender leans toward him conspiratorially. “I might be able to help you out. I told you that story for a reason, after all. I don’t tell just anyone about our Walter, you know.”

“Don’t you?” Sherlock drawls, slightly irritated. He could be halfway across the room by now, weaving through the sweaty crowd and making his way to -

“You see,” the bartender continues in a murmur, so quiet that Sherlock is forced to lean toward him, “Walter went into debt, yes. _But_ he managed to get out of it. He became fantastically rich. Doesn’t look it, I know, but the man doesn’t have to work another day in his life.”

The story may be a tired one, but the fact that the bartender seems to know the details of it has Sherlock intrigued. Is it possible he’s stumbled onto another connection to Moran’s network without meaning to?

Or was he supposed to run into this particular man all along?

It is endlessly frustrating, realising that their plans are no longer their own; that they are now playing by the rules of someone else’s game. But desperation has forced them into this situation, and he has little choice but to pursue this possible lead.

“Why tell me this?” Sherlock asks.

The bartender shrugs, but the purposefully transparent gaze that he drags over Sherlock’s frame is answer enough. Sherlock suppresses a sigh. How predictable.

But he pulls his mouth into a smirk and, as the bartender reaches over to top off his drink, allows their fingers to brush.

“I’d be _very_ interested in knowing more about how Walter managed to pull off such a daring scheme,” he says in a low voice, and the bartender’s eyes flicker.

“Tomorrow,” he returns in an equally quiet timbre. “My shift ends at midnight.”

He moves away, and Sherlock leaves.

\----

Victor is still awake when Sherlock returns to their rooms, and he sees a brief flash of irritation cross Sherlock’s features.

“I told you not to wait up,” he reprimands. Victor snorts.

“Not everything’s about you, you know,” he says. He’s stretched out on the bed, propped up on his elbows and reading a book he has set up against the pillows. “I didn’t wait up. I simply couldn’t sleep.”

“What’s it about?”

Sherlock begins to undress. Victor marks his page and drops his book on the floor.

“Nothing that would interest you. Gods and heroes and a million other things that don’t exist. Successful night? Only made it to one bar, I see.”

Sherlock tosses his shirt in a corner and sheds his trousers before joining Victor on the bed.

“Potentially. It remains to be seen. I’ll be going out again tomorrow, and we’ll know more after that.”

Their lips brush, tentative, and Sherlock is the one who tilts his head and deepens the kiss. He tastes of spring and mint and the calm after a summer rain. Sherlock pulls him down until Victor is sprawled on top of him, one hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair and the other braced on the mattress.

“It’s not all imaginary,” Sherlock says when Victor moves his attentions to his neck, apparently having caught a glimpse of the spine of Victor’s book.

“Hmm?” Victor hums, and he watches as gooseflesh erupts across Sherlock’s skin.

“Your book. Not all of it's imaginary. There’s Phaedrus, who argued that nothing shamed a man more than to be seen by his beloved whilst committing an inglorious act,” Sherlock says, and then stops. He weaves his fingers into Victor’s hair as Victor teases a spot just below his ear with teeth and tongue and a hint of stubble. 

“Mm, yes, and that the lover would aspire to earn the admiration of his beloved, as on the battlefield,” Victor murmurs. He trails kisses down Sherlock’s bare chest and dips fingers into the hollows between his ribs. Sherlock shivers. "You think that's a truth?"

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Victor hooks his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and works them off his hips. He rubs his shadowed cheek against Sherlock’s thigh, stubble rasping against the soft flesh, and then kisses his hip. In the moment before he takes Sherlock in his mouth, Victor looks up, catching Sherlock’s arousal-clouded gaze. Sherlock nods, and Victor finds his hand, curling five fingers around Sherlock’s three before swallowing him to the hilt.

He slides back up the bed once he’s finished Sherlock off, resting a palm on Sherlock’s stomach and kissing his shoulder while Sherlock shudders through the aftershocks. He turns his head to capture Victor’s lips in a clumsy kiss once he’s sufficiently recovered, and Victor nudges him until he rolls onto his side.

Victor curls an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulls him until they are back-to-chest, Sherlock’s damp and heated skin pressed against his own. He slides an arm under Sherlock’s neck and then wraps it around his chest, as much for purchase as it is to support Sherlock’s head. His cock presses into the small of Sherlock’s back and he rocks into the curve of Sherlock’s spine, leaking and painfully hard.

“All right?” he murmurs, and then sinks his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock reaches around and rests his damaged hand on Victor’s hip, silently encouraging him. The three points of pressure burn Victor’s overheated flesh, imprinting upon his mind the touch of the partial hand, overwriting the previous memory he’s held of Sherlock’s whole left hand on his skin. 

Sherlock parts his legs and shifts so that Victor’s cock slides between the heat of his thighs. Victor groans at the added friction and sucks at the base of Sherlock’s neck. He rolls their hips together, thrusting into the heat.

Heat builds low in Victor’s belly, and then suddenly it is spiraling out, just as Sherlock murmurs, _“Now_ , Victor.”

_ “Jesus.”  _ Victor spends himself over Sherlock’s thighs and lies there for some moments after, gasping, sweaty forehead pressed against the back of Sherlock’s neck. Their fingers have become entwined and, as though Sherlock is just realizing this, he tries to tug away.

“There are many kinds of war, you know,” Victor whispers breathlessly. His grip on Sherlock’s left hand tightens, holding on as Sherlock turns to look at him. “And other kinds of bravery. You don’t need to hide this from me.”

Sherlock goes very still. Victor kisses his shoulder blade.

“‘ _And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves_ ,’” Victor tells Sherlock finally, dreading up the words from half a lifetime ago, “‘ _when fighting at each other’s side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world_.’”

Sherlock stares at him for so long that Victor begins to fear that the quote is lost on him.

“Plato,” he says quietly, his voice grave and heavy with something that Victor is too cautious to name, and not foolish enough to hope for. _“Who would desert his beloved or fail him in the hour of danger?’”_

Victor pushes a strand of sweat-damp hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Who indeed,” he murmurs.

 

Hours later, Victor is asleep while Sherlock remains awake still.

Sherlock sits at the desk in the corner, smoking, a nearby window cracked open so the smell doesn’t rouse Victor. His own bed is untouched while Victor has torn his apart in sleep. The blankets are half on the floor and Victor rests one arm on the pillow above his head while the other lays across his stomach, covering the scar left behind by the vicious cut of the meat cleaver all those years ago. Victor lies in a patch of moonlight, his face holding its shape even in sleep. The strong planes of his jaw and shadow of stubble are thrown into sharp relief, as are the tight lines of his biceps. 

He’s like something out of a story, this full-blooded man who swept into Sherlock’s life just as he was shaking off the last vestiges of adolescence. Sherlock traded dreams of pirates for the reality of Victor; tossed off daydreams of high adventure for the man who lived such a life every day. Victor is the death and the resurrection; the man lost at sea who wasn’t supposed to come home; the lover who fights alongside his beloved. 

_ Who would desert his beloved or fail him in the hour of danger? _

Victor is like something out of a story. 

And stories--all stories--end.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the slight mangling of Greek myth.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once you get to the end of this chapter, I'd highly recommend referring back to the A/N at the beginning of [Part 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/620486/chapters/1143696) prior to yelling at me.
> 
> Also, I know that there's already a "violence" warning in the tags, but please be aware that one of the couples has a fight in this chapter, and at one point someone briefly lashes out.

_ Text from: John Watson _   
_ To: Greg _

_ Greg Lestrade, I love you dearly, but the dog is  _ not _coming with to the ceremony._

 

_ Text from: Greg Lestrade _   
_ To: John _

_ How can you say no to him? _

 

_ Text from: John Watson _   
_ To: Greg _

_ Very easily. I’m not getting married with a dog in the room. _

 

_ Text from: Greg Lestrade _   
_ To: John _

_ Worth a try. _

 

_ Text from: Greg Lestrade _   
_ To: John _

_ Mum’s train comes in at 9 tomorrow. Are you working? _

 

_ Text from: John Watson _   
_ To: Greg _

_ No. I can pick her up. She’s staying at your place, right? It’s just that Harry’s already claimed Baker Street. _

 

_ Text from: Greg Lestrade _   
_ To: John _

_ Yeah, she’s staying with me. And Alexandra and the girls are getting a hotel. _

 

_ Text from: John Watson _   
_ To: Greg _

_ Sounds good. You ready for this? _

 

_ Text from: Greg Lestrade _   
_ To: John _

_ Can’t wait. Love you, Johnny.  _

 

_ Text from: John Watson _   
_ To: Greg _

_ Love you, too.  So much. _

\----

The next night, Sherlock doesn't come back to their rooms until the early hours of the morning. He immediately slips into the bathroom and runs the shower for an abnormal half an hour. He comes out wrapped in a towel to rummage for clothes and Victor, only half-awake at this early hour, glances at him. There are long scratches down his back and half-crescents on his hips where nails dug into his flesh. Blood pools just under the skin on his neck and shoulders, brought to the surface by another's teeth.

Victor says nothing about the marks, and Sherlock disappears into the bathroom again, clothes in hand. When he emerges again he's dressed and shaved. Curiosity takes precedence over sleep, and Victor joins him in the kitchen just as dawn begins to light the horizon.

“What did you find out?” Victor asks.

"We're going to be leaving again in a few days," Sherlock says. He hands Victor a cup of coffee and then pours one for himself.

"Right. Where?"

"I’m still working that part out."

“Sherlock...” Victor catches his arm as Sherlock makes to leave the room. “Talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t let me know what’s going on.”

Sherlock sighs, his face darkening.

“This contact is proving to be... difficult to pry information from,” he admits finally. He rubs the back of his neck absently and turns to pick his mug up from the counter. The collar of his shirt shifts, and Victor catches sight of a bite mark at the base of his throat. “The note we received in Belgium has indicated a doctor living here in the city who is a native of the U.S. It’s an old story - he has completely reinvented his identity in order to escape debts and criminal charges in his native country.”

“Creating new identities seems to have been Moriarty’s specialty,” Victor mutters. “In more ways than one. Go on.”

“I’ve made contact with a bartender who not only knows his story, but is willing to share the information. If all goes well, I’ll be able to find out who this doctor’s contact was within the U.S. If he’s important enough, we might be able to render the entire branch useless with a single blow. And if we can manage to take out _that_ branch, Victor...”

“It would be devastating to the network at large,” Victor realises. He blows out a harsh breath between his teeth. “It would also certainly draw attention to us. There’s no way we’d be able to remain under the radar for long after that.”

“I have no desire to,” Sherlock says darkly. “I’m done hiding. It’s time we ended this, Victor.”

“Well, this might actually be a fortuitous development,” Victor says. “That last location on Irene Adler’s list was Vancouver. We’d be on the correct continent, at least. We could take down the U.S. branch of the network and move on to Canada. Maybe... maybe that will be enough.”

Sherlock touches his mug to Victor’s with a quiet _clink_. 

“We can only hope.”

\----

John wakes pressed up against Greg’s side, his head resting on the other man’s shoulder. Greg has an arm wrapped loosely around his waist, and his right hand is covering John’s left, which is resting on Greg’s chest. John can feel the heat of Charlie pressed up against his back, and the dog is twitching in his sleep. 

There is nothing particularly remarkable about waking like this. And yet, on this morning... 

John tugs his hand gently out from under Greg’s and stares at it a moment. He’s not used yet to the weight of silver ring that sits on his finger, nor to the sight of it on his hand. Nonetheless, he feels a smile tug at his lips. Unfamiliar as it is, John has to say that he _does_ like the look of it. 

“Morning,” Greg murmurs, smoothing a hand over John’s back. 

“Hey.” John leans up for a kiss. Greg’s right hand finds his left one again, and he fingers the ring. 

“How’s it feel?”

“Wonderful,” John says with a grin. “Yours?”

Greg kisses his forehead, and John feels his grin.

“Perfect.”

\----

Sherlock spends two more nights in a stranger's bed before coming back to Victor with the announcement that they will be leaving for the States as soon as possible.

"You'll have to work on your accent," Sherlock informs him in the kitchen the next morning. "We'll need to pass as locals, or at least natives of the country. Otherwise, we’re going to stand out, and might even raise some suspicions."

“And who are we looking for, did you find out?"

"A man named Daniel McCarren,” Sherlock says. “If the information I inferred is correct--and no doubt it is--then he is Moran’s _direct_ contact in that country. We need to find him and dispose of him. The entire branch will crumble beneath him if we do that, I’m almost certain of it.”

"Daniel McCarren," Victor muses. He lifts his fingers to Sherlock's neck as he reaches around him to set his empty mug on the counter, lightly brushing a fresh, livid bite mark visible just above Sherlock's clavicle. Sherlock nods his thanks and moves into the bedroom to change. He'll have to trade out his usual button-downs for t-shirts until the marks around his neckline heal. “And the person who sent us the note in Belgium? What are we to do about them?”

Sherlock pauses as he comes back into the kitchen. 

“Nothing,” he says finally. “Taking down this branch takes precedence. I don’t know who sent us that note - perhaps that doctor; perhaps someone posing as him - but we have to move forward.”

Victor nods slowly.

“So long as you realise,” he says after a moment, “that, if Moran had suspicions about us surviving that explosion, we’re now confirming those by following this lead.”

Sherlock nods. 

“I know. So we’ll just have to work quickly.” 

That night, Victor strips Sherlock bare and presses him into the mattress, brushing lips and fingers over the livid bites and scratches that mar his body, slowly reclaiming Sherlock for his own again.  This time, Sherlock is the one who falls asleep first after. Victor remains awake, watching as the pale sliver of moon advances across the sky, throwing strange shadows across the room. Sherlock’s skin glows in the moonlight, the flat planes of his body thrown into sharp relief by the silver beams. They also highlight the angry marks left behind on his chest by another man's fingers, and the bruises on his hips. Victor leans over and presses his lips to the evidence left behind by the trespasser.

_ He is mine. _

 

They fly into LaGuardia Airport two days later.

They are traveling under new identities once again, which miraculously survived the explosion in Belgium, and with their falsified papers are able to rent a car. Sherlock drives, and they travel south along the eastern seaboard.

“Have you been here since the Hudson case?” Victor asks sometime after they cross the border into Virginia. The ocean sits before them, a horizon of grey water that stretches out to meet a sky of white clouds, so wildly different from the Atlantic he remembers--a sea of blue-green that had been framed by endless blue sky and scented with a warm, salt-laden breeze.

“Once, a couple of years back,” Sherlock replies. “Have you?”

“Yes, on a mission,” Victor says, and decides it’s best not to elaborate. 

They spend two weeks in Virginia, just outside of Richmond. It's enough for them to locate two of Moran's major arms factories, the ones Sherlock had spoken of nearly a year ago back in Victor’s French home. Both of the factories are tucked away in nondescript warehouses, and Sherlock and Victor make quick work of neutralizing them. Less than two days later, they are on the road again. 

Behind them, Richmond burns.

The hills and cool, misty blue mornings of Appalachia give way to flat plains and miles of farmland as they drive. And somewhere between the foothills of West Virginia and the dry, cracked fields of Kentucky, the first anniversary of Sherlock's death passes.

It goes unmentioned, but not unnoticed.

\----

Greg is standing by the window, little more than a silhouette in the dying light of day. 

John enters the flat quietly and lets Charlie off his leash. The dog, excited in the aftermath of his walk, bounds over to Greg and barks at him until Greg leans down to pet him. 

“Hello.” John greets him with an automatic kiss after Greg straightens. “All right?”

“Fine,” Greg says softly, and they both know it’s a lie. “You?”

“I visited his grave today.”

Greg nods. “So did I.”

He turns back to the window. John wraps an arm across his collarbone and hugs him from behind, propping his chin on Greg’s shoulder. 

“I can’t believe it’s already been a year,” he says quietly. Greg shakes his head.

“Neither can I.” He sighs and leans back against John. “What do you suppose he’d say now, if he could see this?”

John snorts. 

“He’d have complained about the dog in the flat. Or he’d start doing experiments on Charlie. Or both, actually.”

Greg actually laughs at that. 

“I think he’d be pleased about this, though. About us,” John goes on. “He actually approved of us sleeping together—once he caught on, that is.”

Greg turns his head and raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Did he, now?”

John snorts.

“Yeah. He figured you were the best partner I could have chosen, because you wouldn’t actually call my attention away from cases. He was pleased about the whole thing.” John kisses Greg’s shoulder. “Funny thing is, he was right. You _are_ the best partner I could ever have chosen. I’m so lucky to have you, Greg.”

Greg turns around and wraps him in a loose hug. 

“Same here, Johnny.”

\----

It’s summer now. They settle in the middle of the country, along the same line of latitude that runs through the Mediterranean, though the similarities end there. Turkey had been mild and beautiful that winter; in summer, Sherlock knows from past experience, that country is golden and warm, refreshed by a stiff breeze from the sea.

This new land is none of those things. It is known for its brutal winters, the ones that bury its residents in sheets of snow and ice nine months out of twelve. Its best-kept secret, Sherlock and Victor quickly discover, is that its summers are equally as harsh. Hot winds roll off the plains in waves, flattening grass and bowing trees on the otherwise unbroken landscape. Rain has been scarce this year, and the mighty river nearby is reaching near-record lows. The air smells of dust, and the grass yellows quickly as June moves into July with nary a drop of liquid from the sky. 

On some days the air doesn’t move at all, and they push through it as though they are wading through water. At night they lie awake, covered in sheens of sweat, knowing that midnight will bring no relief and that every hour after brings them closer to another unbearable day. They react to this brutal landscape in different ways--Victor is plagued by near-constant headaches, and Sherlock starts to suffer under the cruel spell of insomnia.

Victor finds work at a construction company, and days spent out in the unrelenting sun darken his skin from chestnut to brown. Months of little food, less sleep, and perpetual stress finally catch up with him, and not long afterward he is smacked by a nasty cold that knocks him out for nearly half a week. The illness eventually fades, but it doesn’t completely disappear. 

Sherlock uses the time that Victor is away at work to root out Daniel McCarren. It’s a long, tedious process that requires he hack emails and websites, tracing lines of communication and stripping away layer after layer of aliases. More often than not he requires Victor’s expertise to break through the most encrypted emails; to trace the most heavily concealed IP addresses. 

Weeks pass without a result.

\-----

Victor is leaning over him, damp hair plastered to his forehead, so far gone that his pupils have nearly eclipsed the thin ring of blue surrounding them. He is without his coloured contacts for the first time in weeks, and tonight his eyes are the colour of a storm-tossed sea; as feverish as he is. Sweat slides down the side of his nose as he moves, and a single drop falls onto Sherlock’s sternum. 

Sherlock raises his free hand to the side of Victor’s neck, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his fingertips and the short breaths that hitch in Victor’s throat. His other hand, slick and warm, holds them both in a tight grip. 

Victor thrusts into Sherlock’s fist, heavy cock sliding against Sherlock’s in the tight heat. Sherlock bites back a moan. Victor leans down, steals messy kisses between thrusts, brushes his lips across Sherlock’s sweaty brow and mouths at his collarbone.

_ “Sherlock.” _

He says it only once, and the remnants of his illness still sit in his chest. As a result, his voice is lower than normal, and the hoarse growl shoots immediately to Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock tenses and shudders into his climax, jerking out of rhythm to Victor’s thrusts. Victor grabs Sherlock’s hip with one hand and the headboard with the other, quickening his thrusts, hips snapping forward into the slick friction of Sherlock’s fist. He comes with a grunt, spilling in pulses onto Sherlock’s stomach, and then collapses next to him on the bed. 

Sherlock wipes his hand on the sheet and then runs his knuckles, once, over Victor’s hip. They don’t touch after that - it’s too bloody hot, even with the pedestal fan - but when he wakes in the morning Victor is asleep on his side, facing him, and Sherlock finds that he can’t tear his eyes away.

\-----

The sun is absent from the sky the day Sherlock finds Daniel McCarren. It remains hidden behind roiling clouds and stiff gusts of warm wind. The clouds mount and climb over one another, billowing as they race across the sky, but they bring little relief from the heat.

McCarren is in a town three states away, and that mere, inconsequential fact nearly does Sherlock in. He is done with this place, and with this country. The heat stifles him and prevents him from thinking. He is always damp and perpetually hot, and with no end in sight, it takes every last shred of his sanity just to remain functioning. He has no desire to savour this find, nor any energy to contemplate another long drive. 

And so he disposes of McCarren remotely, sends a tip to the local police force under the pseudonym Sigerson and watches the television coverage as they conduct a massive raid on his house. The investigation alone will be lengthy, and will take McCarren out of the picture for at least several months. It might not be permanent, but it’s enough for now. With the main contact for this branch out of commission, the rest of the branch’s supports are now rendered useless. 

That evening, Victor finds Sherlock down by the river.

Sherlock is sitting on a hard tract of land that used to be riverbed. The mud has been baked solid by the sun, and he sits there with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms looped around his legs, staring out at what remains of the water. Small waves lap weakly at the shore, reaching up far enough to just barely brush Sherlock’s toes before retreating once again.

“We’re done here,” he says when Victor sits down next to him.

“All right,” Victor says with a nod. He goes shirtless in the late-summer heat, and his golden shoulders are tinged red from the day’s work.

They don’t talk after that. Sherlock estimates that close to an hour passes, but he can’t compel himself to move. He is blank; numb and resigned. The days have been endless, bleeding into one another, and it feels as though they are chipping away at the face of a vast cliff with nothing more than a chisel. Their accomplishments, what few there are, feel hardly noticeable.

The wind changes as they sit there. It stiffens and cools, lifting the damp curls from the back of Sherlock’s neck and drying the sheen of sweat on Victor’s shoulders. There’s a front moving in, and it brings with it a soft mist. It is so subtle that it takes Sherlock several long minutes to realise that liquid is falling, and that it’s coming from the sky.

“Victor,” he whispers, and beside him Victor lets out a disbelieving laugh.

“ _Rain_ ,” he murmurs, and now it’s _actually_ water, big fat drops that splash into the dirt and onto their faces. He slides closer to Sherlock and they huddle there, together, as rain starts to beat down around their heads.

\----

John doesn’t for a moment doubt that Sherlock’s dead. That’s the first thing he needs to clarify to Greg.

“It’s not that,” he says one night as they’re cleaning up after dinner. “But why would he kill himself, Greg? Makes no sense.”

“The work was everything to him,” Greg replies, calmly. “First losing Victor, then losing his work... Might have just been too much.”

“Perhaps,” John allows, but it still doesn’t sit right with him.

"What is it you're trying to say, John?"

John takes a deep breath.

"I don't think it was suicide. I think someone forced him off that rooftop."

Greg stares at him for a long moment and then returns to the dishes.

"All right, then," is all he says, and John can tell he isn't convinced.

The second time John needs to clarify things, Greg is less calm. He had slept badly the night before, and his morning cup of coffee has yet to kick in.

“Give it up, John,” Greg snaps as he passes behind John in the kitchen, happening to glance at his laptop as he does so. “Sherlock’s gone.”

“Well aware of that, thanks,” John replies tersely, and he relocates to the main room while Greg makes himself a second cup of coffee. 

The third time the topic comes up, Greg erupts.

“Don’t tell me you’re still working on that damned conspiracy theory,” he snarls the moment he walks into the flat. John’s sitting with his back to the door, and so his computer screen is well within view. He’s finally taken to floating his idea on his blog, but locking it so that it’s only visible to a handful of his regular readers, ones he’s given password access to. It is well-received, and this eases slightly the ache in his heart. It’s bad enough that Sherlock’s dead; John can’t--won’t--believe that Sherlock was also desperate enough to die by his own hand.

He can’t stand knowing that Sherlock couldn’t even turn to his best friends for help, and wonders where they all went wrong.

“Sherlock’s dead, John,” Greg continues as he moves into the kitchen, peeling off his jacket and tossing it over a chair. “This won’t change that.”

“I _know_ ,” John snaps. He closes his laptop with a sharp _snap_ and follows. “I live with it every day, Greg! _Thank you_ so much for reminding me. But aren’t you curious about _why_ he died?”

“We _know_ why,” Greg says harshly. He stands with his back to John, fixing what is undoubtedly his fourth or fifth cup of coffee of the day. “And we know how. Or have you forgotten that you watched him smash face-first into the pavement -”

Greg turns around mid-sentence, and John slaps him.

For a moment, there is no sound apart from ringing _smack_ of skin-on-skin.

And then Greg sets down the mug so hard that it shatters, spilling hot liquid over his hand and the floor. He doesn’t react to it, and when he speaks, his voice is deadly quiet.

“Sometimes, I wonder if you married me that day... because it’s the closest you’re ever going to get to being with him.”

Cold floods John’s veins, and his throat dams up. For several long moments, he is speechless, and Greg goes on.

“You’re obsessed, John. With him.”

“I’m not,” John stammers. “I just -”

He stops. Greg crosses his arms and won’t meet John’s eyes.

“I told you once,” he says, “that I wouldn’t be a substitute for him.”

“You aren’t,” John whispers. “Never. He could - he could have been the only other person in the world, and I’d still want you.”

Greg snorts. “Cute.”

He moves away suddenly, grabbing his jacket and making for the door.

“Staying at my place tonight,” he says tightly, and is gone before John can protest.

\-----

Sherlock and Victor begin the long journey to Vancouver not long after McCarren’s capture.

They intend to travel mostly by car, as that will offer them the most flexibility. Sherlock hopes that McCarren’s arrest is less suspicious than his death would have been, but either way he has no doubt that eventually Moran will wonder about it. They cannot afford to travel directly to Vancouver; it’s entirely possible, if the city is as important as Adler seems to have believed, that someone will be expecting them to do that. They must, therefore, vary their route as much as possible. 

They stop at a diner in Nebraska, rolling into the dust-laden town at five in the morning. The parched land is yellow, the rains they had in Iowa not having reached this area of the country. From the way his footfalls kick up clouds of dust, Victor would wager that this town wouldn’t know what a rainstorm was if it smacked into them at full-force.

The food is as dry as the land, but Victor eats ravenously anyway, the ache in his belly overriding all his usual preferences. The coffee, however, is spectacular, and even Sherlock decides to have a cup. He sits there scrolling through his phone while Victor eats, one hand curled around the warmth of his mug. The desert, they have found, is a land of extremes--blazing hot during the day and frigid at night.

“Better?” Sherlock asks after fifteen minutes, not looking up, but Victor is touched by his concern and nods.

“Yes. Here, try this.” He stabs at a piece of questionable sausage and holds out his fork. Sherlock eats it almost as an afterthought, his eyes still glued to his phone, and he takes the fork when Victor presses it into his hand. In this manner he finishes off the rest of Victor’s plate, and Victor sits back, pleased that he’s been able to get Sherlock to finally eat something.

“Mr. Branson?”

The voice is nasal, and the words carry a heavy twang. When Sherlock answers, he matches the newcomer’s accent so perfectly that Victor would never have guessed he was from anywhere else but here.

“Yes?” he drawls, looking up at the man who has stopped at their table. “Can I help you?”

The man is nondescript, his features average and his clothes neat; professional. He nods to Victor and takes a seat next to him, across from Sherlock.

“Delivery for you, sir,” he says politely, pulling an envelope out of his jacket and sliding it across the table to Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t pick it up, and instead offers the man a warm, genuine smile.

“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man,” he says, his words drawn-out. Victor, knowing he would never be able to match that accent, keeps quiet. “We’ve only just come into town. We’re not from around here.”

“Pardon my insistence, sir,” the man presses, “but I think you’ll want to take a look at that anyhow.”

Sherlock considers him a moment, shrugs, and then picks up the envelope. He slides his finger under the envelope’s fold and opens it. He pulls out a piece of paper--no, photograph--and peruses it for a moment. His face betrays nothing but puzzlement.

“I’m - well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what it is you’re trying to tell me, here. I can’t say that I know the fellow. Richard?”

He holds out the photograph for Victor to see. Victor glances at the dead man’s features, raises an eyebrow, and shakes his head.

“Sorry to have bothered you, then.” The man collects the picture and the envelope. “Good day to you both.”

And just like that, he is gone.

Victor and Sherlock finish their coffee at a leisurely pace, and at quarter-to-six they are on the road again. Victor discreetly takes the keys from Sherlock while they’re exiting the diner and gets into the driver’s side of the car. Sherlock doesn’t protest. The moment they are on the highway, he folds his arms across his chest, rests his head against the window, and falls asleep.

Victor’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles white and his shoulders stiff from tension. He stares hard at the road, willing himself not to blink.

Because every time he does, Greg Lestrade’s bloodless face and lifeless eyes stare back at him out of the photograph.


	18. Chapter 18

It’s the first night they’ve spent apart in months.

John feels Greg’s absence acutely and sleeps badly. He spends most of the night watching shadows advance and retreat across the ceiling, moved by the thin sliver of moon. He finally drifts off around five and is woken by his alarm at six.

A second night without Greg passes, and John feels ill, sick with guilt and anger at himself. By the third day, the anger has grown to encompass Greg, and he feels furious with them both.

Why can’t they make this work? The one good thing in his life, and not only does he have to go and muck it up, but Greg lets him.

John showers on the third morning, his head pounding all the while, throbbing with lack of sleep and constant worry. The flat is empty when he goes back upstairs to dress.

When he comes down ten minutes later, Greg is on the sofa. 

He is apparently asleep, stretched out with an arm thrown over his eyes. John makes coffee and nibbles half-heartedly on a piece of toast, weak with relief and stomach knotted with all he wants to say but can’t. Before he leaves for work, he throws a blanket over Greg’s still form, and hopes it will say enough for him until they have a chance to talk.

Greg is there again when he returns late that evening, working on his laptop.

“There’s dinner in the kitchen,” he says quietly when John comes in, but he doesn’t look up from his work. John mutters a _thanks_ and eats slowly in the kitchen, gathering his thoughts. He comes out eventually and sits next to Greg on the sofa. Greg slowly closes his laptop and takes his reading glasses off.

“I shouldn’t have slapped you,” John says finally. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know what came over me. That was unforgivable.”

Greg snorts.

“Someday, remind me to tell you about the bloke I was seeing before Susan. We had some of the worst fights of anyone I’ve known. Fought like animals. Fucked like ‘em, too, so it was all right. Believe me, John, I can handle myself if needed.” He sighs heavily through his nose, quickly sobering. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, but John... From my perspective...”

“I know how it looks. But you’re not a placeholder for him.” John bites his lower lip, hesitating. “And you’re not a replacement. I thought you knew that.”

“Thought I did, too,” Greg says quietly.

“You’re the most important person in my life. Even if he was still here, that would still be true.” John presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “But my best friend died, Greg, and I just want to know _why_.”

Greg nods slowly.

“I know.” He sighs, and then adds, “God,John, so do I.”

John bites his bottom lip, hesitating.

“Are we all right?” he asks finally.

“No.” Greg reaches for his knee and squeezes it. “Not yet. But we will be.”

\-----------

Victor drives them across the vast expanse that is Nebraska and through flat Wyoming. By sundown, they are near the state line, and Victor’s eyes are burning with exhaustion as the sun dips below the horizon.

He pulls off the road and onto a thin, graveled drive that cuts through a cornfield. He tucks the car right up against the tall, dry stalks and kills the engine. Sherlock has been awake since noon, but he hasn’t said a word. He sits with his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his head against the window, staring blankly out at the night.

“Come on,” Victor says gently, and those are the first words he’s uttered in nearly a day. His voice is rough with disuse and the cold that’s been lingering since Iowa. He squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sleep. You look like hell.”

Sherlock doesn’t react at first.

“He was all I had after you died,” he says finally.

Victor swallows hard, because in the years prior to his death it never escaped his notice that Greg was also all Sherlock had when Victor was away on missions. 

“I know.”

Sherlock then rouses himself enough to clamber into the back of the car, where he stretches out on the seat as much as he’s able. Victor settles back into the driver’s seat. It is a long, uncomfortable night that follows, and the only solace he draws from it is the fact that Sherlock sleeps the entire way through uninterrupted.

\------------

It has become an unspoken agreement between them that they will not discuss what they saw in the diner. Partly this is due to discretion, as they have been found out at nearly every turn, no matter the precautions they take. The only thing left for it is silence, and so they make no verbal reference to the tragedy they both share.

But mostly, Sherlock knows that if the loss is acknowledged by either of them, he will snap.

And so they press on after a night’s uneasy rest, through the rest of Wyoming and into Idaho. Victor’s cold is creeping back, and he falls asleep just over that state’s border.

"I nearly did as well," Sherlock confides when Victor wakes hours later.

"Dull?" Victor asks, working out a kink in his neck. His voice is thick and congested.

"Tedious."

They switch cars, and a little later on they stop at a gas station in order to change identities. Now Victor is the redhead, and he is forced to admit that it looks just as ridiculous on him as it did on Sherlock all those months ago.

Sherlock goes into the gas station to dye his own hair while Victor waits for the car to fill. He comes out with brown hair a few shades lighter than his natural colour, as well as with a handful of foodstuffs.

"Sweets," Victor says, digging into the bag, "and cigarettes. You never change, do you?"

"Perfect cure for a cold.”

Victor sniffs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They lean against the car, watching as the numbers slowly tick upwards. The pump is painstakingly slow, and Sherlock folds his arms, tapping his fingers impatiently against his elbow. Victor opens one of the packages of sweets to pass the time.

"This is vile," he says after a moment, wrinkling his nose as he chews.

"Mm."

"Why would you mix that with chocolate?" He shakes his head, but takes another bite anyway. "Why would you mix _anything_ with chocolate? Disgusting.”

He reaches for a bottle of water he had set on the top of the car and downs a third of it before handing it out to Sherlock, who shakes his head. 

“I thought you didn’t have money on you.”

“I don’t. The station attendant gave it to me. He says it’s too brutal out here to go without; I’m inclined to agree.” Victor sets aside the bottle and folds his arms. “We’re still heading for Vancouver.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a mistake.”

Sherlock nods slowly.

“I know.” He glances at Victor out of the corner of his eye. “Do you have any better ideas?”

Victor is too long in answering.

“No.”

 

Victor falls into silence once more as they crawl through endless Idaho and into Oregon. At sundown, he suggests they find a hotel. Sherlock protests, wanting to push on to Vancouver through the night, knowing that if he stops moving, stops _running_ , he will be forced to think of Nebraska and the photograph.

But Victor is adamant, and when Sherlock turns to look at him he is struck by the deep pools of purple that have gathered under his lover’s eyes, and by his hollow cheeks.

They find a motel off the highway and settle in for the evening. The room is so small that they exist nearly on top of one another, but this mission long ago cured them of any need for personal space and Sherlock finds, once he stops moving, that he is too exhausted to care very much. He stretches out on the single bed wearing only his trousers and a t-shirt and, while Victor is in the bathroom, falls asleep almost instantly.

Sherlock wakes again only hours later, the insides of his nostrils burning with every breath as the acrid smell of smoke reaches him. All the lights in the room have been turned off save for one in the far corner, a small lamp that casts a faint yellow glow across the rickety desk.

Victor is sitting there in boxers and a t-shirt, one leg folded underneath him and his other foot propped up on the seat of the chair. His elbow is resting on his knee and he has the heel of his hand pressed against his forehead, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. He’s contemplating a piece of paper. A moment later, he places the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and picks up his pen, setting to work once again. He appears to be sketching something.

Sherlock slides from the bed and grabs a jumper from his bag to better ward off the chill of night that has settled on the poorly-insulated room. He dons it and then joins Victor at the desk. Victor doesn’t acknowledge his presence, and Sherlock doesn’t interrupt him.

An ancient radio is sitting on the edge of the desk, and it plays a song that straddles the line between mournful and nasal. Sherlock props his chin on a fist, listening, partially watching Victor’s sketching but mostly watching Victor. Distracted as he has been by Lestrade’s death, Sherlock hasn’t truly taken the time to notice until now how weary Victor looks. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glassy with the beginnings of fever, and he has been taking light painkillers all day in an attempt to ward off a persistent headache.

“My father traveled for business when I was a child,” Victor says suddenly. He’s smoking again, his eyes on his sketch and the pen abandoned on the desk. “He used to take me with him when he could. Germany. Greece. Paris. When I was fifteen, we traveled to Rome.”

He picks up the pen again, and his sketching becomes frenzied, more determined. A street begins to take shape, cobbled and worn.

“In the summer, the sun rises over the Tiber and lights up the water--pink and yellow and golden. It looks as though the entire world has been set aflame, both water and sky alike.” Victor’s voice softens. “I always wanted to take you there.’

Sherlock says nothing, watching the street come to life as Victor fills it will vendor’s carts and fallen leaves; with brick buildings and a stray dog. It is eerily devoid of people.

“My father used to carry me on his shoulders when I was a boy,” Victor muses absently. “I always thought... Well. None of that matters, I suppose. His affection came with a caveat.”

“Your father was an idiot,” Sherlock says, finally compelled to speak.

“No. He was just a bastard.” Victor takes a long drag on his cigarette and then adjusts his reading glasses, leaving a smudge of ink behind on his nose. He goes back to drawing and reminiscing. “Greg was an interesting fellow, wasn’t he? I don’t think he could have stopped parenting even if he tried. He’d yell at you every time you tried to leave your flat without a coat, remember? _Sherlock Holmes, you’ll catch your death out there._ ”

“He did the same to you, if I remember correctly,” Sherlock points out. The corner of Victor’s mouth twists, and he looks unimaginably sad for a brief heartbeat.

“I never understood why he was always so kind to me,” Victor says quietly.

“I do.”

Victor gives him a fleeting glance and then looks back at his sketch. 

“I’m glad you had him, after all that happened,” he says at last.

Sherlock rubs the inside of his elbow absently.

“As am I,” he admits. 

Victor sets aside his pen and gazes at his work, a furrow forming between his brows. Finally, he appears to deem it somewhat satisfactory, because he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and pushes the picture across the desk to Sherlock.

“There’s a street in Rome,” he says softly, “at the top of a hill. There are shops on one side and houses on the other. And if you stand in the right spot, you can spot the river between the buildings.”

“And?” Sherlock asks, brushing his fingers over the picture.

“That’s where they dumped his body.”

Sherlock’s breath stills in his chest, and he suddenly realises that he’s seen this scene before. It’s the same one from the photograph that the stranger showed them in Nebraska, only this time Lestrade’s body isn’t bleeding out on the cobbled street. 

“The photograph,” he says in a hushed voice. Victor nods wearily.

“That’s the street where his body had been dumped. I couldn’t recall why that photograph felt familiar—not until I started sketching it, that is. You can probably verify it on your computer.” Victor sighs. “They took Greg from London and killed him in Rome. But the thing is, there’s no reason for them to have gone through the effort of taking him out of England—unless it’s because Moran is headquartered elsewhere. He’s in Italy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sets aside Victor’s sketch and passes a hand over his face. Finally, he voices the thought he hasn’t dared speak aloud since the diner.

“I’ve been found out.” He looks away from Victor’s face. “Moran’s kept good on Moriarty’s promise. He’s discovered that I’m still alive—or suspects that I am—and has killed Lestrade because of it.”

“Yes.” Victor caps his pen and tosses it into his bag. “So now it’s time to make good on _your_ promise. _Finish_ _him_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallows hard.

“It’s entirely possible,” he says slowly, “that it will make no difference. If Lestrade is dead... John and Mrs Hudson might be as well. If not others.”

“I don’t think that’s what this is,” Victor says. “I think this was a warning. If the others were dead, he would have showed them off right away. But, so far as we know, there’s only been one death. I don’t think Moran particularly cares that you survived, but he doesn’t want you meddling in his business any longer. So he killed Greg as a warning. He wants you to stay away.”

“And what do you think?” Silence follows his question for several moments. “Vic.”

Victor is some moments more in answering him. 

“Vancouver is our next step,” he says at last. “But we were found out in Nebraska, Sherlock. It’s entirely possible Moran’s people will be waiting for us in British Columbia as well. They’re expecting us to either heed their warning or go to Vancouver to continue the mission. So I say that we do neither of those things.”

“Rome.”

Victor nods.

“You said so yourself,” he says softly, “that it’s time we ended this. We now know where Moran is headquartered, thanks to that picture. I’m tired of being cautious, and I’m tired of playing this game. Let’s strike him, and let’s strike him now. If Greg’s death is a warning for us to stay away, I don’t think we should listen to it.”

Sherlock lays his hand on the table, palm up. Victor stares at it for a moment, and then covers it with his own. Sherlock squeezes his hand, holding on so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Let’s finish this.”

\----

Four-year-old Thomas Watson is, Greg can say (with utmost objectivity, of course), the sweetest child he has ever had chance to encounter.

"--and _then_ Mum Clara decided to jump in, too, and when she did there was a _huge_ splash, it almost knocked me over!" the boy chatters enthusiastically as they climb the final set of stairs to Greg's flat. He's holding Charlie's leash, having proudly taken responsibility for the dog on their walk. Greg, for all John's teasing about him spoiling the animal, has actually trained Charlie to be an incredibly obedient dog--even when Charlie encountered squirrels at the park this afternoon, he hadn't dared to chase after them as he would have had an adult been holding his leash. 

The dog leads the way up the stairs, and when Thomas tells him to _Sit!_ , he does so accordingly.

"Good boy," Greg says to Charlie, and then unlocks the door. He allows Tom to help him feed the dog, and then the boy joins Greg in the kitchen while he cooks dinner.

"Where's Uncle John?" he asks half an hour later, just as Greg is finishing steaming the vegetables. He's seated himself at the table with crayons and paper, and is drawing what Greg can only assume is a very simple rendition of Charlie.

"He's at work, remember?"

"Still?"

"Yeah." Greg squeezes Tom's shoulder as he passes. "Sorry, bud. There are lots of people out there who need their doctor. But he should be around tomorrow. Didn't you want to go to a beach?"

"Yeah! Uncle John loves the beach."

"Indeed he does," Greg says with a fond smile, and they both return to their tasks.

He's only met John's nephew a handful of times, but the boy took to him with surprising ease and speed. His parents, Harry and Clara, have been in the midst of a difficult divorce for the past few months. They have been through various separations over the years, but always ended up coming back together--until now. Greg feels for them, having been in that position himself with his now-ex-wife. He can't imagine how difficult it must be to do with a child involved, and that's one of the reasons why he had been more than willing to take Tom in for a weekend while Harry and Clara sorted out some final details. John was around, too, or had planned to be. Unfortunately, emergencies had cropped up at work today, and he had been forced to leave Greg and Tom on their own.

But Tom is a surprisingly easy-going child, especially for his age, and he had taken the change of plans in stride. He had made fast friends with Charlie, and a day at the park with the dog had more than mollified him. Even now, he is content with simply sketching on scratch paper while Greg cooks, and when they finally sit down to eat, he doesn't utter a word in protest at the meal. Greg has never met a child in his life who actually enjoys vegetables, but Thomas eats everything on his plate regardless.

"Thought you didn't like vegetables," Greg comments eventually as he clears their plates.

"I don't," Tom says cheerfully, returning to his drawing now that dinner is done. "But maybe if I eat my vegetables, Mum Clara will come home."

Greg's breath stills in his chest, though he tries to school his expression into a neutral one.

"Come again, bud?"

"She'll come home," Tom repeats. "She always said that I should eat my vegetables, but I never listened. But now that I'm doin' it... she'll stop bein' upset, and she'll come home."

_ Oh, hell. _ Greg's been in this position, yes, but only as one half of a divorcing party. He doesn't have children of his own, and his parents had been together up until the day his father died. He has absolutely no experience in this area.

John would know what to say. But John isn't here right now, and--

_ \--and he's your nephew, too. _

Greg sets the plates in the sink, and then takes a seat next to Tom.

"Tom," he says hesitantly, drawing the child's attention away from his drawings. "Your mums... they love you very much."

"I know," Tom says at once. "They say that a lot."

"Right. Yeah. Um... but they don't really... they need to live apart, right now. Haven't they told you?"

Tom's smile fades. "Yeah. But they used to live together, like you and Uncle John. So, if I'm very good, Mum Clara will come home."

Greg's silence is a beat too long, and Tom's face has started to fall even before he says, "Tom... it doesn't work like that..."

"Why not?"

_ Damn it. _ "Because... they care about each other. But they're not in love. Not right now."

"Why?"

"I--I don't know, Tom. Sometimes it just... happens."

"Mum Clara's never coming home? No matter what?"

"Maybe," Greg says quietly, feeling awful. There are tears welling in Tom's eyes, and he's fighting them valiantly.

"Never's a really long time," he mutters, scrubbing a fist across his eyes.

"I know,” Greg says helplessly.

"Can... Can I go to my room?"

Greg nods wordlessly, and Tom runs for the spare bedroom, Charlie on his heels.

 

Greg checks on Tom later, around his appointed bedtime. It is all too obvious that the child has been crying, but his cheeks are dry now and he's changed into his pajamas without even being asked.

"I want Mum," he whispers plaintively when Greg sits on the edge of his bed. "I want Uncle John."

"I know, sweetheart." Greg pushes a hand through Tom's mussed hair. "Uncle John will be back soon. D'you want him to come say hi when he gets home?"

Tom nods vigorously.

"Okay. I'll make sure he does that." Greg strokes a thumb across Tom's cheek. Charlie snuffles at the end of the bed. "Can I read you a story?"

Tom shakes his head slowly. "Just wanna sleep."

"Oh, Tom..." Greg's nieces have never turned down bedtime stories, no matter how distraught they are. Tom's quiet grief digs a hole in his chest, and Greg can't bring himself to move. He makes an unconscious movement toward Tom, as though to touch his shoulder, and that is all it takes. Tom launches himself into Greg's arms, crawling into his lap and heaving out a choked sob against his chest.

Greg's arms tighten automatically around the child, and suddenly he realises just how out of his depth he truly is. He has only ever had to comfort his nieces when they acquired bumped shins or scraped knees; he doesn't know what to say to a four-year-old boy who just wants his mum to come home.

"I know, Tommy," he whispers finally, burying his face in the child's hair and gently rocking him. "Oh, Tom... I know. I'm so sorry. Shh...."

“ _Mum_ ,” Tom sobs, his tiny fists digging into Greg’s shirt. “I jus’ want _Mum_.”

“You’ll see her tomorrow,” Greg tries to reassure. _Oh,_ but he’s just mucking this up, isn’t he? _Damn it_. “I--I promise. She loves you _so much_ , Tommy. You’ll see her soon.”

Tom falls asleep there, nestled in his uncle's arms, not half an hour later.

 

"How's my little soldier?" John greets that night when he steps through the door to find his husband still awake. He glances around the living room, and then amends it to, "All right, _where_ is my little soldier?"

The entirety of Greg's living room has been converted into a fort. Cushions have been pulled from the sofa and made into walls; blankets make up the ceiling and the windows. Greg is sitting outside the makeshift door of the fort, cross-legged on the floor, a book in hand. He looks up at John's entrance and then nods to the fort, reporting solemnly, "Captain Tom is inside. You'll have to ask permission to enter."

"Will I, now?" John ducks to give Greg a kiss. He asks, in an undertone, "Everything all right?"

"Later," Greg murmurs. He then turns his head and says, louder, "Captain?"

"He can come in," Tom calls. "But only if he brings sweets.”

"Cheeky kid," John mutters, flashing Greg a grin. "Can I bring Uncle Greg, too?"

There is a hesitant pause. "He's guarding the door."

"I think the storm has passed, Tom," Greg says. "We're safe, now."

"Okay," Tom says finally. "But I still want sweets."

John's about to protest, but Greg shakes his head. "We’ll go find you some, Tom."

"What's going on?" John whispers as they move into the kitchen.

"He was scared of the storm," Greg says. He had woken around midnight to find Tom at the side of his and John’s bed, clutching a stuffed animal and terrified of a nighttime storm that Greg had mostly slept through. He had, in a moment clouded by sleep, suggested building a fort in order to stay safe. Ludicrous, really, but Tom's face had lit up at the suggestion and he had been instantly calmed once inside the pillowed structure.

"Okay, but... sweets? It's one in the morning."

Greg quickly relays their dinnertime conversation.

"Oh, God, Greg..." John whispers.

"I know, I know," Greg says hastily, distress plain on his face. "I'm sorry, I just didn't know what else to say..."

"No," John cuts him off quickly. "No, you did fine. More than fine. Wonderfully. God, I wouldn't even have known what to say, Greg."

He kisses Greg's temple quickly.

"I'll talk to Clara when she comes to pick him up Sunday night," John goes on. "Let her know he's asking these questions. He needs his mums to reassure him that none of this is his fault. It could never be his fault. Poor kid..."

Greg shakes his head. "He doesn't deserve this, John."

"I know. But it's for the best, really. They don’t love each other, not anymore. But they _do_ love him. Fiercely. He's not ever going to want for that."

"And he's got us," Greg puts in. John squeezes his hand.

"Of course."

 

They eat their sweets within the confines of the makeshift fort, Tom wedged between his uncles and Charlie curled up at their feet.

"Uncle Greg says that you want to go to the beach tomorrow," John says, and Tom nods vigorously.

"Please?"

John wipes a speck of chocolate off his nephew’s cheek with his thumb. "Of course."

“Can we bring Charlie?”

“It’s up to Uncle Greg.”

Greg rolls his eyes at John. “Of course he can go. Just _try_ to keep him away.”

John peels aside the fort's curtains and turns on the television; within minutes, Tom is asleep in Greg's arms and Greg himself is nodding off, propped up against John's shoulder.

"Love you," he manages to mutter before sleep claims him. John kisses his hairline.

"Love you, too. Love you both."

 

Tom leaves on Sunday evening, and John would have had to have been blind to miss the sadness etched on his husband's face. He doesn't bring it up until that night, though, when they are in bed and he no longer has anything to distract him from the thought.

"Do you ever regret not having kids?"

"No," Greg answers at once.

"No?" John repeats dubiously. "Tom's really taken with you..."

"And I wouldn't trade him for anything." Greg rolls over and gathers John into his arms. "But we've had this discussion before, Johnny. Unless..."

"No," John is quick to reassure. "No, I’ve not changed my mind. I just... if you had... God, Greg, you'd make a fantastic father."

"So would you, kid." Greg kisses his hairline, and then releases him. "But I'm an uncle to three wonderful kids; godfather to two. That's all I've ever needed."

"Are you sure?"

Greg nods sharply. "Yes. Of course. You?"

"Yes." John pauses a moment, thinking. "We're going to spoil those kids rotten, though, aren't we?"

"Without a doubt."


	19. Chapter 19

There is something inexplicable about the bond between fathers and their sons.

Victor has never known a man who did not live in the shadow of his father, hoping--however privately--that one day he could make his father proud. Victor himself remains haunted by the fact that his very nature drove away the man who had doted on him as a boy, and though the distance of time has lessened the sting of that pain, he knows that if ever he had been given the opportunity to win back his father’s approval prior to his death, he would have done it in half a heartbeat. Even Sherlock, who has retained only a few boyhood memories of his own sire, carries William Holmes in his manner and bearing--at least, that's what Violet Holmes once confided to Victor.

But Sherlock also carries the easy charm of another, from whom he has also adopted the absent-minded gestures of inclining his head towards a speaker and touching his nose when he is deep in thought.

And regardless of the warmth of the relationship, Victor has also never known a man who would not go to the ends of the Earth for his father.

And so, by the time autumn comes, they are in Rome.

 

The season steals upon the city at the end of the summer tourist rush, and within days Rome goes from bustling to languid and serene. They find a tiny flat and, as Rome settles in for the approaching winter, set to work.

They are nearing the end. Victor can feel it in the slowly-cooling air; in the resolute way that Sherlock holds himself when he thinks no one is looking. Their funds are dwindling, and several branches of Moran’s network have been rendered useless. Their actions have not gone unnoticed, and Lestrade is dead because of it. 

It’s going to end here, one way or another.

Victor feels as though he’s been living on adrenaline alone for the past year. Now, as their mission draws to a conclusion, he can feel himself slowing as well. He’s tiring more quickly, and there’s a constant ache that sits deep in his bones.

But that doesn’t mean he has worn out his usefulness to Sherlock--far from it. Even on his worst days he can keep up with the detective, and on his best he’s a far sight better than Sherlock could ever hope to be. It’s a good thing, too, because the fifth name on their list--the final name--happens to be that of a man who lives right here in Rome.

Aldo Fontana is a large man, nearly twice as broad as Victor. When he enters a room all the remaining space flees, and Victor has to fight back mental images of him snapping Sherlock in two with just his hands. Victor is a better match for him, but as it is it takes him six hours to wring a name from Fontana. He comes back to the flat later that night shaking with exertion and fighting for breath, and his hands are trembling so badly that Sherlock takes it upon himself to patch him up.

“How’d this happen?” Sherlock asks, indicating the gash above Victor’s eye as he begins to clean the wound. “Vic.”

Victor shrugs.

“He grabbed a lamp before I could stop him; hit me over the head. I was too slow.”

“You aren’t slow.”

“I am today. I’m just tired, Sherlock, it’s fine,” Victor lies around a leaden tongue, though it hasn’t escaped his notice that his limbs have gone rubbery. He doesn’t get tired, not like this, but then again, there’s nothing normal about this situation. He has nothing in his life to compare to spending eighteen months on the run. Maybe it’s finally starting to catch up to him. After all, he is thirty-four - no, thirty- _five_ , and when the hell did that happen?

Just yesterday they were eighteen, nineteen; ageless and _brilliant._

Now, they are too old for words.

“I got a name, at any rate,” Victor says, sliding off the counter where Sherlock had been tending to his injuries and going over to his bag. He sheds his soiled clothing and pulls on a t-shirt and a clean pair of trousers, fastening his belt on a brand-new notch--the second in as many weeks. Most of his clothes are now too large for him. “Maria Consuelos. His contact within the network. Apparently she helps to falsify papers - passports, birth certificates, that kind of thing. She’s probably fairly low in the hierarchy, but it’s better than nothing. Oh, holy hell.”

He’s run his fingers through his hair, an unconscious gesture he makes when he’s thinking. This time, however, when he pulls his hand away, a few strands of hair cling to his fingers. This is a new development, though one he probably should have seen coming. His own father started losing his hair at thirty--Victor’s at least managed to hang onto his for this long.

Victor sighs and brushes his hands together over the bin, watching as the hair falls away.

He’s tired. He’s so _bloody_ tired.

Victor reaches for Sherlock and pulls him into a loose embrace. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and presses his face into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, breathing in the scent of laundry soap and spice. Sherlock rests one hand on the small of Victor’s back and cups the back of his head with the other, his three fingers gently rubbing Victor’s scalp. 

“How did this happen?” Victor asks, his words muffled. “What did we do wrong?”

He feels Sherlock swallow, but no answer is forthcoming. After a moment, Sherlock’s hand stills in his hair, and he murmurs, “Vic.”

Sherlock doesn’t often call him that, but he’s now used it twice in one night. Victor draws back, but doesn’t pull away completely.

“What is it?” he asks, passing a thumb over the lines at the corner of Sherlock’s eyes, as though he can smooth the worry from his face. 

“I went to the street today,” Sherlock says quietly. It takes Victor a moment to make the connection.

“The street where...”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and Victor feels hollow. There’s no new information regarding Lestrade’s death, then. Nothing to find, and nothing to infer.

“We’ll track down Maria Consuelos,” Sherlock says. He steps away and reaches for his laptop, all business once again. “We’ll work our way up the hierarchy from there; find a weakness in this branch and exploit it.”

Victor understands what goes unspoken--that they aren’t going to burn this branch, not yet.

Not until they find out what happened to Lestrade.

\----

Their flat, tiny as it is, has two beds, and tonight Sherlock is in Victor’s. 

The curtains have been drawn and the doors are locked, but Sherlock doesn’t pretend to himself for a moment that those precautions are satisfactory. They will, however, be enough for now. 

He kisses the side of Victor’s throat from his shoulder to just under his ear, and then tilts his head to take Victor’s earlobe between his teeth, sucking gently. Victor hums and slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer. He’s on his back while Sherlock leans over him, left leg draped over both of Victor’s own. His free hand--his left one, as it happens--slides through Victor’s chest hair before tweaking one of his nipples between thumb and forefinger. 

They are clad in nothing but their shorts, and Victor’s skin is already glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Sherlock slides his thigh between Victor’s legs and moves to kiss him properly. Victor cups Sherlock’s face and deepens the kiss with a groan; lets his legs fall open and Sherlock settle between them. Sherlock hooks his fingers into the waistband of Victor’s shorts and slides them off, his own following quickly. 

Sherlock pries Victor open with first two, then three, lube-slicked fingers.  He turns his head to press a kiss first to Victor’s raised knee, and then another to the inside of his thigh. Victor is panting, but he reaches for Sherlock anyway, kisses until he is breathless--it doesn’t take long--and then moans as Sherlock enters him. 

They come together, wordlessly. Sherlock gives two final snaps of his hips and sinks his teeth into Victor’s shoulder, shuddering through his orgasm as Victor clenches around him. Victor grabs the headboard for purchase and comes in pulses, his own cry stifled by the hand Sherlock quickly throws over his mouth. The walls in their building are thin and the neighbors close; it’s best not to attract more attention than they already do.

Victor lingers in the bed after they've cleaned up, unusually quiet and sombre. And though they try to keep separate beds whenever possible, this time Victor molds himself to Sherlock's back and falls asleep a little after midnight.

And Sherlock lets him.

\----

Aldo Fontana dies in a brilliant day in mid-autumn, killed by a single gunshot wound to the head.

Sherlock and Victor suspend their search for Maria Consuelos for two weeks after news of his death reaches them.

\----

Victor wakes one morning in late autumn, freezing and shuddering violently.

It takes him a moment to realise why--sometime during the night, both he and Sherlock managed to kick all the blankets off the bed they’re not supposed to be sharing. Sherlock wakes as Victor goes to retrieve them.

“What’s wrong?” he mumbles.

“Blankets,” Victor whispers. He tosses one at Sherlock and then wraps up in another, shivering all the while. Sherlock grunts.

“Bloody furnace in here,” he says waspishly, shoving the blanket back at Victor. “Take it.”

He then rolls over and is instantly asleep again.

Victor lies awake the rest of the night, shivering.

 

“You look terrible,” Sherlock comments the next morning. Though Victor had been awake long before him, he opted to stay in bed until the last possible moment. He drags himself into the shower, finally, at seven, but even that is a task.

“Observant, that,” Victor mutters. He pours a cup of coffee out of habit, but when the fumes assault his nose his stomach churns, and he pushes the cup hastily away. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

Sherlock frowns for a moment. “Did you say that you were cold?”

“Yeah, it was bloody freezing in here. I don’t know how you managed without blankets the whole night.”

“Victor, it was at least 26 degrees in here last night.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You’re ill.”

“I’m fine.”

Sherlock doesn’t pursue the issue and returns to his laptop. Victor pours himself a glass of water and nibbles unenthusiastically on a piece of toast.

 

It’s worse by the afternoon, and Victor finds himself struggling valiantly to keep up with Sherlock’s train of thought.

“And so we could - Victor!’

Victor snaps out of his daze. “Hm?”

Sherlock’s expression is murderous. “I’d get more done talking to my skull. Focus!”

Victor tries to nod. He’s not sure what happens instead, but a moment later he’s staring at the ceiling and Sherlock’s fingers are tight on his wrist.

“You fainted,” Sherlock says briskly. “Pulse is fast. Can you stand?”

It turns out that he can, but not for long. It’s enough to get him over to the bed, where he passes out again.

\----

Victor remains asleep for the majority of the afternoon.

Sherlock spends the rest of the day researching, but progress is slow-going. He’d like to blame it on lack of leads, and that is part of the issue. Maria Consuelos, so far, has been a dead end. Given enough time, they could probably track down the correct contact, but the name is too common and there are a myriad of them in Italy alone. Sherlock estimates it will take him close to a year to properly investigate each one and he has neither the time nor the patience for that.

But Sherlock finds he is also distracted by Victor’s fevered sleep. He curls up into a ball under the blankets and doesn’t move, his usual restless sleep pattern replaced by one that is too still. His fever climbs throughout the afternoon and into the evening, finally capping out at thirty-nine. It’s not dangerous, but it’s not a good sign, either. And there’s nothing Sherlock can do about it.

And then, at quarter to ten that night, Sherlock gets a phone call. He ignores it at first, as there are only a handful of people in the world with that number and none who should be calling at this time.

But on the second try, his curiosity gets the better of him. Sherlock lifts the mobile to his ear.

“I have information for you,” the voice on the other end says before he can even open his mouth.

“Wrong number,” Sherlock says curtly.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr Wright,” the voice--male, Sherlock thinks--says. “Or do you prefer Mr Armitage? Mr Branson works as well, I believe.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about," Sherlock says as calmly as he can manage, his pulse quickening as each alias is rattled off. "Wrong number, as I said.”

“That’s a pity, then. I was very much hoping we could help each other out.” The voice pauses for a moment. “I was very sorry to hear about your loss, Mr Wright. But I believe I may be able to give you the answers you're looking for."

Sherlock says nothing, but he doesn’t hang up, either.

“What is it you want?” he asks finally.

“I want you and your friend to meet with me at the end of the week. Friday, sometime in the afternoon. I’ll text you the time and location later. Be sure that you’re free. I would hate to have to clear your schedule for you.”

The line goes dead.

\----

John wakes at seven in the morning.

Raindrops _ping_ against the window, the start of yet another chilly autumn shower. He can't recall more than a handful of days this season that have been full of sun and warmth. Greg, who prefers storms over sun--unless it interferes with him being able to ride his motorbike--couldn't have been happier.

He's stretched out beside John now, flat on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms as he sleeps. They are at Greg's tonight, and when John reluctantly leaves the comfort of the bed for the loo, he is greeted enthusiastically by Charlie.

With dawn fast approaching, John knows he won't be getting any more sleep tonight. He takes Charlie on an early morning walk and then feeds him. By the time he's done that, John can hear Greg growing restless. Asleep, still, but on the verge of waking.

He fixes two cups, one of coffee and one of tea, and carries them to the bedroom. Charlie follows and, the moment John opens the door, leaps for Greg.

_ “Charlie,” _ John scolds sharply, but it is no use. The dog stands over Greg on the bed, alternating between _yipping_ and nuzzling Greg's shoulder with his nose.

"Right, yeah, I'm up," Greg mumbles, trying to shove the dog away. " _Shut up,_ Charlie, you'll wake the whole damn building."

"My fault," John says apologetically, handing Greg his coffee as he sits up. "Sorry."

“S’not your fault,” Greg says around a yawn. “Flat’s too small for him. We need a bigger place, John.”

John grins and leans over for a kiss. “Soon.”

“Soon,” Greg agrees. “Paper?"

"Here."

Greg opens the paper and nurses his coffee. Charlie curls up at the end of the bed while John resumes his spot, pulling out his laptop to check his blog. When that is done, he calls up several news sites, perusing articles while Greg starts work on a crossword. They pass an hour in this manner, until the rising sun is at such a point that it streams directly into their window, and John is forced to get up and close the curtains.

"Guess the storm's cleared up, then," he comments, returning to bed.

"We could go for a ride later," Greg says. "If you're up for it."

John smirks. "As if I'd pass up a chance to see you on that bike."

Greg laughs. His hand finds John's leg as he returns to his reading, and he rubs his thumb in absent circles on the outside of John's knee. Charlie leaps down from the bed and trots into the main room, where they hear him snuffling at the windows, giving the occasional soft and half-hearted bark at the birds that flit by.

"Nutter," Greg mutters, but it's with a fond smile, and his hand slides higher. He squeezes the inside of John's thigh, once, and then is still, heat radiating off his palm in waves.

"He only does that ‘cause you let him," John points out. He tugs his t-shirt up and over his head, tossing it in the direction of a corner, and then settles back against his pillows.

"Come now, John," Greg teases as he dips two fingers into the waistband of John's shorts, stroking the warm skin, "how can  you say _no_ to him?"

"Very easily," John bites out as Greg finally-- _finally_ \--wraps a hand around him, his thumb brushing over the leaking head of John’s cock. Greg begins to stroke John languidly while he sets aside his newspaper and shimmies out of his own shorts. "And I think that we've got better things to do right now than discuss the dog, don’t you?”

Greg smirks and straddles John’s hips. 

“God, yes.”

\----

Victor wakes at three in the morning, mouth full of cotton and head pounding dully, but he can stand unassisted and considers that a small victory. Sherlock is asleep on the sofa, having collapsed there fully-dressed, and Victor navigates past him and into the small bathroom.

He runs a cold shower, washing away a day’s worth of sweat and grease, and afterwards manages to feel marginally like himself again. He returns to bed, and tumbles back toward sleep.

 

Five o’clock comes far too quickly for Sherlock and he wakes all at once, halfway into a sitting position before his mind can catch up to his body’s actions. He doesn’t know why he’s woken at first, but that’s answered quickly enough. Victor’s bed is empty, and someone is retching in the bathroom.

_ Hell _ .

Victor hasn’t eaten in nearly a day, and there’s nothing for him to bring up, but the dry heaves still go on for what feels like hours. Sherlock is quickly barred from the bathroom. Victor even goes so far as to throw the bolt before he collapses in a fit of retching once more. Outside, Sherlock paces, spends ten minutes ranting at Victor, and gets no response.

“If you die on me,” Sherlock bellows finally through the door, “I _will fucking destroy you_.”

Five minutes later, the door opens, and Victor leans heavily against the frame. His skin is pasty and glistens with sweat, which has plastered his hair to his forehead and turned it from brown to ebony.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he whispers finally, still trying to catch his breath. “I’m fine.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock says, and helps him back over to the bed. “Your timing could not have been more awful, you know.”

“Sorry to put you out,” Victor mutters dryly. “Next time I’ll be sure to come down with the flu only when it’s convenient for you.”

“See that you do.”

 

Victor eventually plateaus, but that doesn’t make the experience any less awful.

He sleeps another day away and then forces himself out of bed the next morning, two days after he first woke with the initial fever. He grits his teeth and propels himself on shaking legs to the shower, which he runs cold. It feels glorious on his overheated skin, but it can’t go on forever. When he shuts it off, the stuffy flat invades again and he is miserable once more.

He dresses in lightweight trousers and a loose cotton shirt. From the look Sherlock shoots him when he first walks into the kitchen, Victor knows that he looks no better than he did the first day, but thankfully Sherlock refrains from commenting on it.

“I’ve made a contact,” Sherlock says while Victor makes toast. He hopes that this meal is simple enough for him to hold down.

“Oh?” Victor tries to appear enthusiastic and fails miserably. “You found Maria Consuelos?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and explains about the phone call.

“They’ll be expecting us both at the end of the week,” Sherlock tells him. Victor frowns.

“Is that wise?”

“No. But what part of this has been wise?” Sherlock looks grim. "We can't afford not to investigate this lead. We have no other options, Vic."

Victor leans heavily against the counter. He’s aware that it’s keeping him upright more than his own legs are. “Okay. What do you need?”

“I don't intend to go into this meeting blind. I need to find out _something_ about our informant. Can you trace the call?”

“I can try.”

If nothing else, it gives him something to take his mind off the deep ache in his joints. Victor manages to narrow it down to within a ten-kilometer radius, but that does them little good.

“Sorry,” Victor mumbles at last, taking off his reading glasses and pressing his palms against his eyes. His head is pounding, and he’s been combating muscle spasms all morning in addition to the nausea. “Can’t think. That’s the best I can give you.”

Sherlock, for once, doesn't protest.

 

The night before the scheduled rendezvous, Sherlock receives a text from an unknown number, listing an address some streets away and a time: _2 pm._

Victor is already in bed, but not asleep. He has grown neither worse nor better, and floats between periods of awareness and unconsciousness. When Sherlock joins him, simply for lack of anything else to do, Victor mumbles, “You’ll get it, too.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock says, and Victor is too exhausted to argue. He slides a few inches to the right, making room, and then lies limp. Sherlock stretches out on his back, folds his hands on his chest, and hopes for sleep. He will need it, for tomorrow.

For a while, Sherlock watches the shadows stretch across the ceiling with the rising of the moon. Victor is curled up under his blankets, and his forehead presses against Sherlock’s shoulder. They don't sleep. Victor’s body is too badly abused to allow him even that luxury, and Sherlock...

Sherlock remembers.

He remembers clumsy hands and hesitant touches; he remembers fumbling with buttons and zippers, progress hampered by clothing they weren’t adept at peeling from a partner’s body. He remembers sloppy kisses in the rain and greedy ones behind closed doors. He remembers Victor, nineteen, the flush of arousal blooming across his chest and neck, whispering for _more harder now._

He remembers Victor, bent over his studies, chewing on the end of a pen and deep in concentration.

He remembers Victor, silhouetted in the light of the setting sun as they walked the grounds of his father’s estate.

He remembers Victor, who chased away the tedium and brought colour back to the world.

Victor, who grows more brilliant with each passing day.

“What’re you thinking about?” Victor mumbles.

“Colour,” Sherlock answers, and he feels Victor frown in bemusement.

“Colour,” he repeats dully.

“That month I spent with you on your father’s estate,” Sherlock clarifies.

It had been the summer after his first year at university when he traveled to Norfolk with Victor to stay at the family estate--some six months before Victor fell out with his father. Sherlock had even met Henry Trevor there, briefly, and been welcomed warmly into his home before Trevor left for yet another business trip abroad. But Sherlock and Victor had managed to find their own distractions, usually in the library or out on the grounds of the estate. And, as their time there drew to a close, tentatively in one another.

But it wasn’t until they traveled away from the Trevor family home that anything started to grow of their mutual burgeoning attraction. Henry Trevor owned property all over the world and had houses in a number of different countries, but by far Victor’s favourite was a tiny cottage in Sussex Downs. He took Sherlock there during the last week of their month together.

And that’s where everything between them changed, on a rainy evening in a tiny cottage nestled among the yew trees.

A flush blooms up Victor’s neck that has nothing to do with the fever.

“God,” he whispers in embarrassment, “what’d you want to remember that for?” He turns his head further into the pillow; closes his eyes. Silence descends for some minutes. When he speaks again, his voice is low and rasping. “You were eighteen and brilliant; I was nineteen and frustrated. And we had the place to ourselves. Spontaneous combustion, that was. Quick and clumsy, but it got the job done.”

“We got better,” Sherlock says after a moment, and Victor gives a bark of laughter.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “We did, didn’t we?

They don’t talk for a while after that. Sherlock begins to believe that Victor is asleep, and contemplates trying to do the same. But then Victor starts to shiver again, which quickly escalates into violent shudders. Sherlock wraps the blanket tighter around his friend.

“Cold?”

“Yeah,” Victor stammers, even though he’s burning with fever. Sherlock rolls onto his side, slides an arm under Victor, and pulls him close. He aligns their bodies together, thighs to hips to chests, tucking Victor’s head under his chin so that it’s resting against his chest.

“Better?”

“You shouldn’t -”

“I want to.”

Victor doesn’t argue after that. He relaxes, going boneless in Sherlock’s arms so that all he’s holding is dead weight. Sherlock runs his hand over Victor’s back and rests his cheek against Victor’s forehead, trying to provide some additional warmth. After a while, Victor’s tremors cease, and he starts to drift. Sherlock does the same.

He’s almost asleep when Victor’s weak voice rouses him.

“Do you still play?”

It takes Sherlock some moments to realise what Victor’s asking. There’s music playing next door--record, not the radio, he can tell from the quality--and through the thin walls he can make out _Danse Macabre, Op. 40._

“Yes. Well... I did.”

Shudders wrack Victor’s frame again, and he groans, teeth chattering. Sherlock tightens his hold, keeping Victor tight against him. His shirt is damp already with Victor’s sweat, and he considers shedding it altogether. But that would require moving, and he finds himself unwilling to let go.

“Perform?” Victor whispers, voice tremulous with chills.

“Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

_ Because you weren’t there to see _ .

Sherlock brushes his lips across Victor’s sweat-damp forehead and murmurs against his overheated flesh, “You know why.”

“Sentimental bastard.” Victor shivers violently. “Bloody-- _Christ_.”

It’s then that Sherlock comes to a decision--one he should have made at the beginning.

“I’m calling off the meeting.”

Victor hisses, “Are you mad?”

“Victor, you can’t even stand. We aren’t doing this.”

“Yes, we are,” Victor says, anger seeping into his firm tone. “You _need_ me there, Sherlock. Even at my worst I’m still a far better shot than you, and we have no idea what we might be going up against at that meeting. You aren’t throwing away _everything_ we’ve worked for simply because I’ve got a touch of the flu. I won’t allow it.”

Sherlock bites the inside of the cheek, hard, and tastes blood.

_ You’re going to get him killed _ .

“That’s not the issue,” he says at last. “Someone has found us, just as we have been found out countless times before. This is too neat, too easy. An offer of information? You’ve said it before, anyone who wants to help us is a threat, no matter what side they’re on."

"And what are we to do otherwise? We haven't been able to track down Consuelos, nor anyone else of use. We still don't know what truly happened to Greg. So do you have any better ideas?"

"No," Sherlock admits. And then, "Yes, actually. _I_ can still make the rendezvous."

"Alone?" Victor asks incredulously. "That's mad."

"Not entirely. You remain here; lie low for a predetermined amount of time. If we stay separated... there is a greater chance that at least one of us will make it back to England.”

Victor is quiet a moment, turning this over in his mind.

“Leave the USB stick with me,” he says finally. “If I don’t hear from you within a certain amount of time... I’ll get it back to Mycroft. That way we can still bring back Moriarty and clear your name.”

Sherlock nods in wordless assent, and Victor relaxes fractionally against him.

“Good.”

Sherlock runs the palm of his hand across Victor’s shoulder blade. His skin is burning, even through the fabric of his shirt. 

“This isn’t the flu.”

“I know,” Victor says after a moment.

“You’ve been sick too long for that. And muscle spasms, what’s _that_ about?”

Victor doesn’t answer. He’s fallen into a fitful sleep, head tucked against Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock is grateful for his oblivion.

He wishes he could quiet his own mind as quickly.

Sherlock’s gaze falls on the far window. Through the curtains, the darkness is impenetrable, but he can still hear the approaching storm, and the thunder just beyond the hills. He holds Victor tighter as the rain begins to fall, and remembers a time before Moriarty.

It seemed to go on forever.

It was over all too quickly.

\----

Sherlock finds that waiting is the worst part, as it always has been. 

It’s akin to the time he spent between cases before John and after Victor--it’s numb, meaningless, and grey. He spends much of the next morning pacing the length of their small room, trying to ignore the static lapping at the edges of his mind. There’s nothing here to distract him. Victor is terribly ill; the streets are quiet; the final puzzle piece is inaccessible to him.

He needs to hold on for just a few more hours. This afternoon, he will have more information to occupy his mind; another chase to pursue. He will find out what happened to Lestrade; he will destroy everyone and _everything_ personally responsible for his death. He will burn Moran. 

And when that is over, he can return to England with Victor, his beacon of light; Victor, who is yellow where the rest of the world is grey-dull-tedious- _worthless_.

When Sherlock comes back to himself he is sitting on the sofa, head in his hands, restless fingers raking through and tugging at his hair. Victor is awake, lying on his side and peering at Sherlock through cloudy eyes, looking even less lucid than he had the night before. He raises two fingers off the mattress in greeting, and then crooks them. Sherlock obeys the summons and stumbles woodenly over to the bed, lying down next to his friend.

“You look terrible,” Victor announces, his voice little more than a rasp. “Static?”

Sherlock can just barely nod. He lies on his back and throws an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the light.

“Right, then.” Victor turns his face into the pillow; closes his eyes. Every word is an effort for him, but he makes it anyway. “Prime numbers. First dozen.”

Sherlock rattles them off in less than ten seconds. Victor nods to himself.

"One, one, two, four...” he says, and trails off. Sherlock picks up the sequence.

“Eight, fifteen, twenty-nine, fifty-six, one-oh-eight, two-oh-eight. The tetranacci sequence, a generalization of the Fibonacci sequence.”

“Very good,” Victor murmurs. He takes Sherlock through a series of other number sequences, each one more difficult than the last. Sherlock solves each one, and usually almost immediately, but the amount of focus it requires quiets his mind for the time being; clears his head enough to allow him to think.

Time passes, of that he’s aware, but he has no concept of how much.

“Thirty-one,” Sherlock says later on, in answer to Victor’s latest question. “That sequence consists of two alternating series. The first one -”

He stops and turns to look at his friend, because Victor is no longer listening. He is still lying on his side, facing Sherlock, but his eyes have slipped closed and his breathing is starting to slow. Each puff of breath whistles in Sherlock’s ear, and he allows his head to fall towards his friend, until his cheek is resting against Victor’s overheated brow. Sherlock stares at the ceiling a moment, committing the brown stain that looks like a bowler hat to memory--Victor had had a stain on the ceiling in his old flat, right above his bed, and that one had resembled a mouse. Sherlock rolls onto his side, facing Victor, their foreheads touching.

He slides trembling fingers along Victor’s jaw, cupping his face. Victor’s skin is paper-thin, and as white as the first snowfall. His lips are pale and cracked, and the whisper of breath that escapes them on each exhale is weak.

“You mustn’t,” Sherlock whispers to the sleeping man. “You mustn’t _do_ this, Vic. Don’t. Don’t you _dare.”_

Victor’s eyes twitch under their lids, and the deliberation with which he licks his lips tells Sherlock he’s not asleep after all.

“Sixteen years ago,” Victor whispers, “I met this boy. Gangly thing; bit of a git. Gorgeous git, but a git all the same. But he had a wicked tongue and a mind as sharp as his eyes, and he called me _idiot_ like it was the most wonderful thing on the planet. And, you know, it was.”

Victor cracks open weary eyes and fixes Sherlock with a lopsided smile.

“D’you remember that first flat you had after university? Leaking pipes, nonexistent heat. Mice in the kitchen, though most of that was your doing.”

“Yes,” Sherlock croaks.

“Eyeballs in the jam and fingers in the butter dish didn’t keep me away,” Victor says softly. “Neither did death. So what makes you think a little thing like this will stop me now?”

He draws Sherlock into a gentle kiss and then whispers, “It’s time.”

Sherlock slides out of the bed and then crouches next to it so he remains at eye-level with his ill friend. Victor’s left hand lies on the mattress, palm-up. Sherlock reaches out to brush his fingertips along the sweaty flesh, tracing the lines etched into Victor’s skin.

“ _Go_ , you great oaf,” Victor says, his voice brittle, breaking with all that goes unsaid. “Now’s not the time for you to be getting sentimental on me.”

Sherlock ducks his head, and presses his lips to the inside of Victor’s wrist. Victor’s fingers twitch, brushing Sherlock’s cheek before he pulls away.

“I _will_ be back.”

Victor’s voice shakes when he speaks.

“I’m counting on it.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the cases mentioned within come from the BBC’s _Science of Deduction_ website. The details of the cases belong to me. More notes at the end.

Sherlock arrives at the rendezvous point ten minutes early. 

He slips inside the warehouse, his final words to Victor still ringing in his head.

_ I will be back. _

The warehouse appears to be largely unused. It is vast and spacious, and Sherlock’s footfalls echo in the cavernous room no matter how hard he tries to stifle his steps.

His contact is as sly as Mycroft. Sherlock doesn’t hear him approach, but feels him at the last second. He whirls around and comes face-to-face with the man who--presumably--had called him earlier in the week.

“Mr Wright,” the man greets. He holds out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock takes it.

His contact is largely unassuming. He is a contemporary of Lestrade’s, going by the flecks of grey at his temples and the lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. They might have even been schoolmates, if the man’s accent is anything to go by. Sherlock estimates that they would have grown up within a twenty-mile radius of one another.

But that is where the similarities end. This man sports none of Lestrade’s easy nature, and there is no humour behind his serious gaze. He is largely sandy-haired, tall, and solidly-built. Whereas most men grow softer with age, the addition of years appears to have hardened him, and his physique is mostly muscle. His beard is neat and carefully-clipped, indicating that he has the luxury of such ministrations in his morning routine.

He has also spent the last year, at least, abroad, going by his shoes and his uneven tan, and Sherlock would not be surprised if he came to find that the man lived a largely nomadic lifestyle. A callus on his hand and the line of his shoulders tells Sherlock that this man is used to handling a firearm, probably a rifle, and he is well-off, going by his watch. A mercenary, perhaps.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Sherlock says at last. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“But you do know that I’m a marksman, a mercenary, and that I don’t stay in one place for very long. I prefer the term _sniper_ , but it’s all much the same. Give me your gun, Mr Wright.”

Sherlock doesn’t see the point in denying that he has one.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

His contact arches an eyebrow at him.

“That’s your choice, of course, but I do promise you – you will never find out what happened to Inspector Lestrade unless you hand that weapon over.”

“If I hand it over, you could kill me – and then I never _would_ find out what happened to him.”

“I believe that’s a risk you’re willing to take.” The man stares him down. “The _gun_. Now.”

Slowly, Sherlock pulls the weapon out of his belt and sets it on the ground. The man signals him, and he kicks it away.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock stares at him.

“How –”

“I knew you were looking for Inspector Lestrade’s killer; did you really think I hadn’t figured out your name as well?” The man rocks back on his heels. “I have to admit, though, I’m a bit disappointed you haven’t figured out mine. I’ll save you some time. Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightens, and he is at once furious with himself for not having figured it out sooner. _Of course_. 

“Colonel,” he says tightly, and gives a mirthless smile. “How fortunate. I’ve been looking for you.”

“What luck. I’ve been looking for you as well. I think we can say I was more successful in that endeavour. And _fascinating_ as this all is, I actually have some business to discuss with you.”

“Interestingly enough, I don’t have anything to discuss with _you_ ,” Sherlock says, much calmer than he feels.

“So you say now. I wonder if your tune would change were I to tell you that I have your partner in my possession?”

“Not as such, no, seeing as you’re lying,” Sherlock points out.

“As we speak, my men are collecting him.” Moran folds his arms. “I have to say, I don’t like having my work interrupted, Holmes. I was on a mission in Mexico last year when I heard about your swan dive and Moriarty’s suicide. I was summoned back to England, where I took over the operation he left behind.”

Sherlock reads the words he won’t say in the ones that he does--taking over the operation is not something that Moran ever envisioned having to do, and it sits ill with him. He is a man of action; a man who is used to lurking in the background and carrying out his work with quiet efficiency.

"How did you find us?" he asks, hoping to stall for time while he tries to figure out an exit strategy.

“Your actions came onto our radar in Greece, though I admit at that point you were little more than a nameless irritation,” Moran says. “But then you personally aroused some suspicions in Africa. A man, targeting Moriarty’s network mere months after Sherlock Holmes fell to his death? Interesting coincidence. And then you slipped up in Johannesburg. Brothers, you claimed to be, but I must confess that I have never seen two siblings so... close.”

_ The kiss in the alley. _

Foolish, foolish.

“You passed off the men following you as petty thieves, and there you were correct,” Moran goes on. “But thieves have a price, and one that I was more than willing to pay for information."

“They could have told you nothing.”

Moran lifts an eyebrow.

“They told me enough. _You_ did the rest, actually.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I had suspicions that you survived the bomb in Belgium, and you confirmed them by taking that bartender’s tip and moving to the U.S. to root about McCarren. Thank you for that, by the way. He was proving to be rather incompetent.”

“You couldn’t have known it was us.”

“I suspected. So I decided to send you a more personal message, to see if you would take the bait. It was _textbook,_ Holmes.” Moran pulls a photograph from the inside of his jacket and holds it up. “I thought I could use one of your friends to flush you out--and it worked. You got _careless_ , Holmes. Sentiment. It drove you here, right into my grasp.”

Sherlock flinches at the sight of Lestrade’s bloodied face and broken body, but he forces himself to look at the photograph anyway. He won’t give Moran the satisfaction of looking away. 

“You know, it’s amazing what a person can do with technology, isn’t it?” Moran tucks the photograph back into his pocket. “It’s not really my area, to be honest. I prefer settling scores face-to-face, but this time technology proved to be much more efficient.”

Sherlock stares at him. 

“What do you mean?” he asks slowly. Moran smirks, the first expression that has crossed his impassive face.

“I _mean_ that I only needed two fatherless boys desperate to prove themselves, and a computer program to do the rest. Your inspector is alive, Holmes, very much so. And, because of him, you played right into my hands.”

\----

The moment Sherlock is gone, Victor leaves the refuge of his bed. 

Every joint burns and throbs; his throat is too dry and the air is too still. But he has never had any intention of allowing Sherlock to go to the rendezvous on his own, and so he reaches for his gun. He tucks it into a shoulder holster that he wears under his jacket, and as an extra precaution he straps a small knife to his ankle. 

None of this feels right. 

Victor gropes for his mobile. There are still ten hours to go before the cut-off; before Victor is to take the evidence and flee, without once looking back.

If it reaches that point, it means that Sherlock is actually dead.

Victor cannot allow that to happen. 

There are voices in the hallway, and Victor grits his teeth. His head is throbbing, pulsing with every flash of light through the curtained windows and with every bump and shuffle. The voices make him feel as though his head is being split down the middle, and for a wild moment he wishes for that to be true.

Anything to be rid of this pain.

The voices grow louder, and Victor pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning -

\- He freezes, breath halting in his chest.

The voices are growing louder.

Growing closer.

He grabs the gun and sinks to his knees beside the bed, slipping underneath it just as someone kicks in the door. It bounces off the wall with a _bang_ , and Victor flinches in agony. The covers hang down over the side of the bed closest to the door, shielding him from view, but the intruders aren’t stupid enough to ignore his hiding spot for very long. Victor hears two distinct sets of treads. They are speaking Italian, which he doesn’t know, but he has enough knowledge of the Romance languages to get the gist of their words.

Sherlock has been captured, and they’ve been sent to deal with his partner.

After all that, Victor thinks wearily, _this_ is how it ends.

He curses silently and, sucking in a breath, rolls out from under the bed and to his feet in one fluid movement. His arms are trembling, limbs rebelling, but even at his worst he’s still faster than the intruders. It takes him three shots to bring the closest one down where normally it would have taken one, but the sight of blood spurting from his partner gives the second man pause.

It doesn’t last long.

And this time, Victor is the one who is too slow.

\----

_ Lestrade is alive. _

“The photograph isn’t real,” Sherlock says finally, finding his voice.

“Of course it isn’t real. Did you really think I would waste time and resources killing one of your friends? All I needed was for you to _think_ he was dead. And it worked, needless to say.”

Sherlock knows he should feel relieved, and there’s a small part of him that goes weak at the news. But he also is struck cold by the realisation that Moran _knew_ to target Lestrade. Moriarty would have lashed out at John, and Moriarty did--but that threat only served to anger Sherlock; to sharpen his mind. Lestrade makes him careless; the thought of Lestrade’s death has caused him to act irrationally. It clouded his judgment.

Moriarty was ruthless and clever, but Moran... Moran is cool and calculating. And that makes him far more of a threat than Moriarty ever was.

“Why did you bring me here?” Sherlock asks at last.

“I told you - I had answers about Inspector Lestrade’s death.”

“Yes, but why tell me like this? What do you want of me?” Sherlock asks finally.

Moran takes a USB stick out of his pocket. He tosses it at Sherlock, who catches it deftly in his right hand.

“This is the information you need to take down my Italian operation. Maria Consuelos would have been a dead end, had you ever located her. _This_ is the link that you need. If you can figure out how to make use of it, you’ll render my operations in Italy useless.”

Sherlock turns the USB stick over in his fingers.  “Why?”

Moran shrugs. “If one man is able to bring the entire branch to its knees, then it wasn’t very good in the first place, was it? I like to think of it as testing my security systems. The branches that are weak have died, and I am gaining _so many_ ideas from watching you do your little work. As for the branches still alive... well, Holmes, you’re _never_ going to find those, even if you were looking in the right places.”

“What do you mean?”

“How is Victor, Holmes?” Moran smirks. “I _mean_ that you’ve been going about it the wrong way, all these months. It’s been amusing to watch, but also rather pitiful.”

“We destroyed your arms factories,” Sherlock says peevishly, irritated.

“Yes, you did. And took out my men in South Africa, and the U.S., and Turkey. Stopped my funds in Liechtenstein and Milan, too, if I remember correctly.” Moran shrugs. “You miscalculated. I don’t need them. I never have.”

Despite himself, Sherlock pauses.

“You _must.”_

Moran turns around and strolls over to a small cooler than Sherlock hadn’t noticed until now. He opens it up, pulls out a vial, and tosses it at Sherlock.

“Not when I have this,” Moran says as Sherlock catches the vial in what remains of his left hand. It is cold, so much so that it is almost painful to hold.

“A piece of glass?” Sherlock retorts, holding the vial up to the light. There are a few drops of red liquid in it, probably blood.

“Oh, use your head Holmes, for God’s sake. I know you have one.” Moran tucks his hands into his pockets. “You’ve guessed already that I led a nomadic lifestyle. Where do you suppose I’ve been?”

“A mercenary would go where the conflicts are.”

Moran nods. “I’ve spent most of my life abroad, mostly in Africa. I made a name for myself there when I was only a teenager. _Think_ , Holmes.”

“That puts you in there... what? Late seventies, perhaps, or earlier,” Sherlock murmurs to himself. His eyes widen as he realises the significance of the date and the vial he’s holding. _“Oh.”_

Moran nods as realisation dawns on Sherlock.

“I was the most efficient killer on the continent at the time. I still am, in fact. But my skills were _nothing_ compared to the efficiency of what was blooming along the Ebola River,” Moran says. “I don’t need brute force, Holmes, or physical arms. All I need is an aging stopper on a beaker, or a containment failure, or a tear in a biohazard suit that’s too minute to notice. All I need is smallpox, or Ebola, or Marburg. What you’re holding there--the slate-wiper, they call it. Ebola Zaire. Ninety-percent mortality rate.”

Sherlock’s fingers slip on the vial, and he catches it with his heart in his throat and his stomach on the floor.

“The arms factories, the weapons - they’re all a distraction. And they kept you busy, for a time. But I don’t need any of that, and I never have.” Moran nods to the vial. “All I need is _that_ , crushed on the ground at Waterloo Station, or Victoria, or Hyde Park. All I needs is a population that hasn’t seen smallpox in two generations, and doesn’t know how to handle it. It’ll be quiet and elegant, and no one will notice it until it’s too late.”

“Victor -” Sherlock says despite himself, and Moran waves a hand.

“A message. A hint of what is to come,” Moran says. “It’s poison that plagues your friend--always a favourite of Moriarty’s.”

“Poison,” Sherlock repeats dully. _Of course_. What hides behind the symptoms of a disease?

What looks like the flu, but isn’t?

It should have been obvious to him from the start, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that.

“Why this? Why all of this?” Sherlock brandishes the USB stick, which he still holds in his other hand. “And why give this information to me?”

Moran raises an eyebrow. “Because you need these puzzles and these little games. Without them, your brain rots. And I need _you.”_

“What for?”

“I’ve given you two warnings, Holmes. Victor is a hint of what is to come; a hint of what I’m capable of. Greg Lestrade is what will happen if you disobey me. But for as long as you remain under my command your friends back in London will live out their lives unmolested. Your genius is unparalleled; my resources are unmatched. It seems we _owe_ it to the world to work together, doesn’t it? Or let me put it this way: Moriarty’s consulting job has a vacancy.”

Sherlock licks his lips. A snake’s smile creeps across Moran’s face.

“ _Think_ of it, Holmes. No more boredom. No more waiting between cases. No more having to rely on an incompetent police force to chase away the tedium. That must be _more_ than appealing to you.”

Moran holds out his hand for the vial; Sherlock willingly gives it over, and Moran puts it back in the cooler.

“I still don’t understand what it is you want with that,” Sherlock says, nodding to the cooler, trying to push concern for Victor out of his mind so that he can _think_.

“I have the deadliest diseases in the world at my disposal,” Moran says. “I have Ebola and Marburg in my own private stores. I have men ready to fetch smallpox stocks at my command. I have strains of the 1918 ‘flu, dug out of the permafrost in Canada and being replicated in my labs. Now, think like a practical man for once, instead of like Moriarty. Add it all up. _What do I have?”_

“A monopoly on biological warfare.”

“And, by extension... a monopoly on peace.” Moran flashes his terrible smile. “I can bring the world to heel, Holmes, with just a few strands of DNA. I can pit nations against one another. I can sell to one publicly and another privately. I can put a price on safety; I can bring order to chaos. I can make a fortune; I can render governments useless. And, I promise you, you will _never be bored.”_

“Enough!”

Sherlock’s head snaps around in time to see a small door behind him swing shut, and Victor enter the room. 

He looks, if that is possible, even worse than before. In addition to his visible signs of illness, there is a cut across his nose and a gash on the right side of his face, too close to his eye for comfort. It appears as though someone struck him across the face with a blunt object--from the marks left behind, most likely a gun. He’s holding his left arm tight across his stomach, though he holds a gun in his right hand and has it trained steadily on Moran.

“Ah, Mr Trevor,” Moran says. He doesn’t sound in the least bit surprised to see Victor here on his own. “I’m glad you were able to join us.”

“How could I refuse, with all the trouble you went through to get me here?” Victor says calmly. “Your two friends won’t be joining us, however. I’m afraid they’re indisposed. Permanently.”

“I would expect nothing less, if you are as good as I’ve heard. Death has treated you well, I see. And it’s certainly kept you busy. I admired your work in Mexico. And Panama was _exquisite_.”

Moran turns to Sherlock and adds, “It’s one thing to kill a man, you see. It’s quite another to change his ways; alter his signature. Victor Trevor was dead in name, dead on paper, but his work is very distinctive to those who know what they’re looking for. His kills are recognizable, no matter how hard he tries to mask them. I’ve known about you for a long time, Mr Trevor.”

“You never turned me in.”

Moran shrugs.

“I didn’t care enough to. You were hardly my concern, and Moriarty was too busy playing games with your boy toy here to notice what you were doing.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Sherlock growls.

“Nothing you don’t already know, Holmes. I’m just an admirer of your friend’s work. I can appreciate a fellow expert. And it’s quite astounding the lengths he went to for you, if a bit misguided.” Moran takes a long look at Sherlock’s face and then adds, softly, “Unless... he never told you, did he?”

“Told me what?”

“He never told you,” and now Moran sounds almost incredulous, “that he _died_ because of you.”

“He did,” Sherlock says through gritted teeth, “what he _felt_ was necessary in order to keep his enemies at bay. How is this relevant right now?”

Moran snorts.

“Is that what you told him, Mr Trevor?” he says to Victor. “You’ve been an agent for too long. Why tell the truth when a lie will suffice? Typical. No, Holmes, _his_ enemies weren’t the issue. Yours, however, were.”

Sherlock looks at Victor in spite of himself. Victor has his gaze - and his gun - still locked on Moran.

“You earned yourself a reputation, Holmes, even long before that blogger of yours came along and made you famous. James Moriarty was not the only person to notice you. Where should I begin, Mr Trevor?”

“Leave it,” Victor says, very softly.

“I suppose we should start at the beginning,” Moran says, ignoring Victor. He turns to Sherlock. “About four years ago, you were working on the case of the Kirkcudbright killer, who, if I’m not mistaken, tried to make you victim number six in his killing spree once he realised you were onto him. Do you remember?”

“He was arrested,” Sherlock says bitterly, because although he cracked the case, he hadn’t been the one to turn the man in.

“Yes, thanks to an anonymous tip.” Moran looks pointedly at Victor. “You had wanted to turn the man in yourself, that’s why you waited. It almost cost you your life.”

_ “Almost.”  _

Moran ignores him.

“Sometime after that, there was the case of the Laughing Pilot. His wife would have run you down in the street had it not been for that stranger who bumped into you-- _accidentally_ \--and knocked you out of the way. I believe you broke two fingers when you landed, isn’t that right?”

Victor still hasn’t moved; has barely even blinked. Moran goes on.

“Three years ago, you were working on yet another case in the U.S. You would have been shot if not for a mysterious gunman who killed your assailant before he even had chance to draw his weapon.” Moran pauses for a moment, allowing Sherlock to recall the case--and his conversation with Victor in Virginia earlier that year. “And let’s not forget your plane flight to Minsk last year, when you went to consult with the man who had stabbed his girlfriend to death? You weren’t supposed to make it out of that one alive, either. The plane was supposed to have gone down over the North Sea. Pilot error. But Mr Trevor reprogrammed the plane’s computers and fixed the glitch before takeoff.”

“Enough,” Sherlock says sharply.

“And then there’s the day that you died.” Moran gazes heavily at Victor. “Tell him.”

Victor blinks rapidly, and for the first time his steady mask begins to slip.

“If you don’t,” Moran says, “I will.”

Now, finally, Victor speaks.

“Sherlock, I was one of the three snipers,” he says quietly, still not taking his eyes off Moran. “I was supposed to kill John Watson if you hadn’t fallen.”

Sherlock feels his jaw lock and his tongue go leaden in his mouth. He can’t mask his incredulity, and he can’t voice his shock.

“And that’s not all,” Moran says quietly.

“It’s enough,” Victor says forcefully.

“All this time...” Sherlock croaks, finally finding his voice. Victor nods, almost imperceptibly.

“I’ve been watching you, all these years,” he says softly. “The car crash that started it all was the work of the Abernetty family. You were their target, and if not for where I’d been sitting, you would have died. I couldn’t let it happen again.”

Sherlock mentally shakes himself, trying to drive a million questions from his mind. Physically, he draws himself up, shoulders going ramrod-straight and right hand twitching for a gun.

“None of this is relevant,” he says sharply. “What is it you want with me?”

“With you _both,_ ” Moran corrects. “Consider this a lengthy job interview. Both of you have skills which are unparalleled - well, almost. I’ve still a good few years left in me, Mr Trevor. But Moriarty’s death has left you the sole genius in your field, Holmes, and I’m not interested in games. I don’t need a distraction from the tedium. I have a business operation to run, and you will be our most prized asset.”

“Why would I work for you?”

Moran smirks.

“I would cite a figure that would make your brother shit himself, but let’s be honest. Money’s never truly interested you. But I can promise you this - you will _never_ be bored again. And, Mr Trevor, he will be safe. Offer your own services to me, and no one will ever get close enough to Sherlock to even touch a hair on his head, let alone think of harming him.”

Victor doesn’t even hesitate.

“No.”

Moran considers him a moment.

“It’s arsenic, Mr Trevor,” he says quietly. “Simple and mundane, but effective. We’ve been poisoning you for months.” 

“Have you?” Victor says mildly, his voice nothing but disinterested.

“Come work for me, Holmes,” Moran says, still looking at Victor, “and we’ll begin treating him immediately.”

“No,” Victor answers again.

“What’s the issue, Mr Trevor? Did you get a better offer?”

His voice is scathing. Victor gives him a bland smile.

“No,” he says softly. “No, I think your offer is about the best thing I’ve heard in a long time. You’re right, I would give anything to keep Sherlock safe. The answer is still no.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I don’t need a better offer,” Victor growls. “There will _never be_ a better offer. _I’m_ the best one there is... and I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

He tightens his hand on the gun, finger resting lightly on the trigger. Sherlock, who recognises the stance for what it is, immediately tenses, his senses going on high alert. 

“Tell me something, Moran,” Victor says quietly. “You’re in an empty warehouse, outnumbered two to one, and _I’ve_ got the gun. So why aren’t you scared?”

Moran says nothing, his expression blank, and Victor cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I think it’s because,” Victor goes on, “we’re not quite as alone as you would have us believe. Sniper.”

He swings his gun arm around so quickly that Sherlock doesn’t have time to react before he’s fired. But Victor had aimed the gun high, over their heads, and a moment later a man falls from the shadows of the second level, where he had been keeping watch on a narrow walkway. The gunman hits the ground with a sickening _crack_ , instantly breaking his neck, and his gun clatters down next to him. 

“Now where’s the other one, I wonder?” Victor asks quietly. “Is he behind door number one?”

He aims the gun at the door on their right, watching Moran’s face.

“No, too obvious, of course. Door number two, then?” 

Victor points the gun just over Moran’s shoulder, and is still for a moment. Sherlock can’t tell what clue he’s looking for, but after a moment Victor’s eyes widen fractionally.

“Oh, of course. I passed him on my way in, didn’t I? Clever, clever.” Victor aims the gun behind him, at the wooden door he had come through, and still doesn’t take his eyes from Moran’s face. “Door number three, I think.”

He fires two shots through the door, clustering them together at what would be chest-height on an average human. There is a grunt and then a heavy thud, and then all is still.

“Was that part of my _interview_ , Moran?” Victor asks. “Did I pass your little test? Or were they truly there for backup?”

“Whichever you prefer,” Moran says blandly, but a muscle has tightened in his jaw. Victor’s lips curve into a smirk.

“There we go,” he says softly. _“Now_ you look scared.”

Two _cracks_ rent the air, and it takes Sherlock a moment to realise that they’ve come from Victor’s gun. By the time his brain recognises this, Moran is on the floor, bleeding from a gunshot wound to his knee and another to his stomach. Victor keeps his gun trained on Moran.

“Your men are dead. We’ve dismantled enough of your network to make it unstable,” Victor says quietly. “If nothing else, it’s hardly useful anymore. Your death will be the final blow. There will be no recovering from this. It’s over, Moran.”

Sherlock starts towards Moran, but Victor’s sharp voice stops him.

“Don’t. He’ll be dead in less than fifteen minutes, with a wound like that. Let’s give him some privacy, shall we?” 

He drops his arm, finally, and Sherlock pulls the gun from his hand.

“Are you all right?” he asks in a low voice, because Victor’s face is abnormally pale, and he’s sweating profusely.

“Splendid,” Victor says shortly. “Let’s get out of here.”

They make it only as far as the stairs beyond the double-doors, however, before Victor falters. He grips the railing and lowers himself to sit on one of the steps. Sherlock crouches next to him, a question poised on his lips, but then he notices a splatter of red on Victor’s shirt.

“What have you done?” Sherlock mutters, peeling aside Victor’s jacket. That’s when he finally notices the bullet wound. _“Christ_ , Victor.”

Victor huffs.

“Would you believe it? I was too slow back at the flat. Must be getting old.”

“Can you stay awake for me?” Sherlock asks urgently, fumbling for his phone with the hand not applying pressure to the bullet wound. His fingers are soaked already with Victor’s blood, and he misdials the number Mycroft gave him eighteen months ago three times before he manages to get it right.

“For you?” Victor grunts. “For you, Sherlock, I could do _anything_.”

And that thought is more sobering now than it has any right to be, but Sherlock pushes his concern aside while he talks to Mycroft.

“It’s over,” he says briskly when Mycroft answers the phone. “But there’s no time to explain. We need an ambulance immediately. Gunshot wound, he’s been bleeding for a while. There are three dead here, including Moran, and the building is hot. You’ll need to dispatch a team that specializes in biological agents. There are also two bodies back at our flat.”

Mycroft promises that reinforcements will arrive within ten minutes. Sherlock hopes he can keep Victor awake for that long.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock asks as soon as he rings off. He presses hard on Victor’s wound, and Victor grunts in pain. “Why all the lies, Victor?”

“It was easier to have you… be angry with me over a lie,” Victor grunts, “than have you furious over the truth.”

“But, Victor –”

“I failed,” Victor hisses. He covers Sherlock’s hand with both of his own, trying to help him apply pressure. His words are gasping, but he’s fighting valiantly to stay awake and alert. “I promised... you would be safe. But I popped in and out of your life. It was like... watching frames from a film. I never got the... the whole picture. I didn’t see what Moriarty had been doing to you... until it was too late. I never imagined... he would try to erase you. I was too... too short-sighted. That day you fell... I made sure I was one of the snipers. So I could take down Moriarty. I had promised... I had _promised_... he wouldn’t ever get close enough to hurt you. Turns out... he didn’t need to get close at all. And then... then he fucking shot _himself.”_

There is  a drop of liquid at the corner of Victor’s eye, and Sherlock stares at it. He reaches up and brushes the tear away with his thumb, leaving a streak of blood behind.

This time, he knows Victor is telling the truth. The enormity of it all makes him feel lightheaded.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Sherlock says quietly.

“I left you.”

“You analyzed a situation,” Sherlock says, “and took what you thought was the most rational course of action. You can’t be blamed for that.”

“Sherlock -”

“Victor.” Sherlock puts a hand on the side of his throat, pressing his thumb under Victor’s jaw and forcing their eyes to meet. Victor’s are quickly growing bleary. “All this time, you’ve been looking for forgiveness. You needn’t, not anymore. _You have it._ You’ve always had it.”

Victor gives a wheeze, his eyes bright. He’s beginning to shiver, and Sherlock pulls him against his side. He wraps an arm around Victor’s shoulders, continuing to press down on the wound with his free hand. Below them, there comes the sound of people entering the building.

“And you are coming home with me,” Sherlock murmurs against Victor’s cheek. Someone is shouting their names. “I promise you, Victor, _we are going home.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of Victor’s symptoms do indeed match those of arsenic poisoning; however, I took some slight liberties with a couple of them. The information regarding the various diseases came from Richard Preston’s _The Hot Zone._
> 
> And as far as Victor goes, we’re just going to conveniently ignore the fact that the sniper at the end of TRF doesn’t have a beard, nor is he Karl Urban. Or, if you like, we’re going to pretend that Victor has the ability to grow a beard in a short amount of time.


	21. Chapter 21

John is at work when Mycroft’s people come for him.

“Sod off,” he says the moment he sees the three men, suits impeccable, standing stiff and ramrod straight in the center of the room, severely out of place amid the ill children and harried parents. “I haven’t got time for this. We’re in the middle of flu season, could you have chosen a worse time?”

He turns away to speak to Sarah, and one of the men grabs his arm. 

John, reflexively, punches him. 

The entire room goes silent, except for the occasional sniffle. The man brings a hand to his now-bloodied nose and says, almost exasperated, “Mr Holmes said you would do that.”

“Look at that. Mycroft knows me after all,” John says dryly. “Now tell me what it is you’ve come to say, and then you can be on your way.”

The three men exchange glances. One finally leans in.

“Mr Holmes says that it’s to do with his brother,” he says in a quiet voice, “and that he would appreciate both your discretion and your presence.”

John goes.

\----

Mycroft doesn’t waste any time with pleasantries. 

“I know this may come as a shock to you, gentlemen, but I’ve brought you here today to tell you that my brother is, in fact, alive,” he says the moment John arrives and joins Greg in front of Mycroft’s desk. “He faked his death eighteen months ago in order to embark on a mission to destroy the network James Moriarty left behind.”

He gives a brief overview of Sherlock’s mission twice before John gives up trying to understand and simply lets the words wash over him in cold, shattering waves. He grips Greg’s hand tightly, so much so that the ring on his left hand digs into Greg’s flesh. His husband, as ashen as the cold embers in Mycroft’s fireplace, doesn’t say a word in complaint.

“Why tell us this now?” Greg asks finally. His voice is weak with shock. “Is he...?”

“No, he’s very much alive, I’m happy to report,” Mycroft says, though his face is actually impassive. “He completed the final leg of his mission some days ago. I decided it would be best to tell you after he arrived back on home soil.”

“We can see him, then?”

“You will be taken to him immediately.”

Greg asks a few more questions that don’t register with John through his shock, and then he falls silent. 

“One last thing, gentlemen,” Mycroft says as they are getting to their feet, shaky with the news, John feeling the beginnings of anger start to stir in his gut. “Sherlock has spent the past six months believing you dead, Inspector Lestrade. It was a ruse used by Moran to flush him out, and needless to say, it worked. He is aware of the truth now, but do keep in mind that you are not the only ones to have suffered such a shock. Now, if you’ll follow me downstairs, I’ll have one of my men take you to the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Greg finds his voice first. “Was he injured?”

“No,” Mycroft answers, but he can be persuaded to say nothing more on the subject.

They are driven to the hospital after, and personally escorted to a private wing.

“He’ll be in there,” one of Mycroft’s men informs them when they come to a room at the end of a hall, and he leaves them there, standing awkwardly in the corridor.

The privacy curtains are open and, after trading hesitant glances, John and Greg turn from each other to look through the window.

John speaks first.

“That’s not Sherlock,” he mutters dully. The man in the hospital bed is far too slender--and his features far too average--to be Sherlock. He’s seen better days, though, John notes with a glance. His cheeks are sunken, indicative of him having lost too much weight recently, and he’s on oxygen. 

“You’re right,” a voice says behind them, and they both turn.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Greg curses, and for a moment they can do nothing but stare.

Sherlock’s hair is a few centimeters shorter and some shades lighter than the last time John laid eyes on him. The bones of his face are sharper and there are lines at the corner of his eyes, but beyond that he looks virtually the same. His gaze flits between them, but John notices that it keeps straying back to--and lingering on--Greg. After a moment, Sherlock gives them a weak smile that falls quickly from his face. He nods to the room behind them, looking grim once again.

“Associate of mine. He aided me in taking down Moriarty’s network.”

“Associate?” Greg asks, surprised. He turns to look through the window at the man again; after a moment, a frown cuts through his features, though John can’t say why.

“Friend.”

“You don’t have friends,” John snaps, suddenly finding his voice, and he relishes the way Sherlock flinches.

“I thought my brother had filled you in,” he says quietly. John snorts.

“Yeah, ‘cause apparently you were too much of a _coward_ to do it yourself.”

Sherlock’s brows snap together and his lips thin.

“Then you’ll know,” he says in a tightly controlled voice, “that I had _no choice_ but to fake my death. You’d have died otherwise, don’t you understand? Both of you.”

“We under -” Greg starts, but John cuts him off.

“ _No_. I watched you _die_ , you fucker. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you chose to _stay dead_.” He jerks his head over his shoulder, indicating the room behind them. “It was all right for you to trust a stranger with your secret, but not me? Not us? We were your _friends_ ; did you really think we would turn our backs on you?”

Sherlock glares.

“That wasn’t the issue and you know it,” he snaps. “There was a sniper with his finger on a trigger, and if I hadn’t walked off that roof he would have killed you. Both of you. And it wasn’t enough to just fake my death, John, because if had ever been discovered that I was still living...” Sherlock stops and sucks in a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his anger. “I stayed away to keep you alive. I won’t apologise for that.”

John gapes at him.

“I still can’t believe you would trust a _stranger_ with your life rather than your two closest -”

“John,” Greg steps in finally, “that’s not a stranger.”

John turns so abruptly he nearly elbows Greg in the side. “ _What_?”

Greg glances hesitantly at Sherlock, and then says, “That’s Victor. Victor Trevor.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Sherlock says, “Yes.”

“‘But -” Greg stops; clears his throat. He continues, softer, “Victor _died_ , Sherlock.”

“So did I.” Sherlock gives Greg an unreadable look, and adds, “And so did you, for that matter.”

There is another long moment of silence, and John’s on the verge of saying _Does anyone around you actually stay dead?_ But Sherlock looks as though he’s been awake upwards of four days or more, his shirt is rumpled, his eyes are rimmed red, and his gaze keeps straying to the window behind John and Greg.

And so John asks, “Is he going to be all right?” instead.

Sherlock gives a slow nod.

“I believe so, given time.”

John’s not sure which of them moves first, but they go from staring at one another from opposite sides of the corridor to meeting in the middle of it in a fierce embrace. John’s chin knocks against Sherlock’s hard shoulder and he tastes blood as his teeth cut into the inside of his mouth, but it doesn’t matter.

_ “Sherlock,”  _ he whispers, the feel of the name strange on his tongue.

Sherlock’s, “Hello, John,” is something that John never thought he would hear again outside sleep. He feels at once dizzy and faint with it all, and is acutely aware that for some seconds only Sherlock’s strong grip is holding him upright.

They eventually pull apart and then Greg, after a hesitation so minute that only John notices it, wraps Sherlock in a loose hug, whispering, “It’s good to have you back.”

Something shifts in Sherlock’s face, and when John realises it’s his composure slipping, he turns away to give them some privacy. But he isn’t able to ignore the muffled, “I thought you were dead,” that Sherlock mutters against Greg’s shoulder. John hears fabric rustling, presumably Greg tightening his hold on Sherlock. When he speaks, his voice is rough.

“I’m not going anywhere, lad. I promise you that.”

\---

John and Greg return to Baker Street in order to regroup and gather some things for Sherlock. 

They borrow some shirts that belonged to Mrs Hudson’s husband and John starts to put together a dinner of sorts to take to the hospital. Greg, weary and grey and looking, for the first time, all of his fifty-one years, finally shuts down. He goes upstairs to sleep off the stresses of the day while John finishes cooking.

John sits down and opens his blog as he waits for a pot to boil.

He spends ten minutes staring at a blank screen.

This, announcing Sherlock’s return on his blog--this _should_ be easy, because his readers will rejoice with him in the same manner that they grieved with him a year and a half ago. Writing this post should be simple, especially in comparison to the post that announced Sherlock’s death. Three words; three words that are unexpected, but not unwelcome.

_ Sherlock is alive _ .

But what comes next, his readers will want to know. John can’t say, and it’s this that stumps him. Do things go back to the way they were, the genius detective and his blogger; their landlady and their detective inspector; the crimes and their perpetrators?

How can they?

Sherlock is back, but he’s a little bit broken; a little bit different. They all are. And so the truth that’s so plainly sitting before John is one he doesn’t want to write, and one his readers don’t want to know.

_ Sherlock is back. _

_ It’s not all right. _

When Greg comes back down that evening, it takes John twenty minutes to convince him that _no,_ it hadn’t all been a dream.

Sherlock is alive.

\----

Sherlock spends that night at Baker Street.

He sits with John and Greg before the fireplace in the main room and talks himself hoarse trying to tell them about all that happened during his mission, and about Victor’s reasons for faking his death. Their mugs of tea all go untouched and quickly turn stone cold.

“You and Victor,” Greg says finally as midnight comes and goes. He waves a hand vaguely through the air, and it takes John a moment to catch his meaning.

“We decided it was best not to rekindle things,” Sherlock says, picking up on the question Greg doesn’t know how to properly ask. He waits for a beat, watching their faces, and then gives a cautious smile. “That lasted for about a month.”

Greg grins and happily claps him on the shoulder. 

At one point, John ventures, “It’s a bit warm in here.”

Sherlock, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, nods absently. Charlie is curled up at his side, and Sherlock has one gloved hand resting absently on the dog’s neck. The other holds his mug of tea. He hasn't removed the gloves once today, not even at the hospital.

John tries again. “Surely you don’t still need those gloves on.”

Sherlock blinks slowly and then draws back, coming out of his thoughts. He stares at John, lips parted slightly, and then says in slow realisation, “You don’t know.”

John glances at Greg and then raises an eyebrow. “Know what?”

Sherlock sets aside his mug.

“My mistake, of course. I didn’t think - well, what with one thing and another...” He trails off, poised to tug off his left glove, and then says, “There was an accident when we were in Belgium.”

John is too experienced to show surprise when Sherlock pulls off the glove, and he’s seen far worse in his career than a couple of missing fingers. But the fact that this is Sherlock, that this is someone he knows - that colours the injury and makes it seem worse than it is. None of this shows in his face, but inwardly he cringes. Greg, who is equally experienced at masking a reaction, merely shifts in surprise.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John takes the hand in his own, examining the old wound. “Does it hurt you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

He takes off the other glove, revealing a whole hand, and then says, “There was a bomb, and I got too close to it. It’s because of Victor I’m alive. The infection would have killed me had he not disobeyed me and found a doctor.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock says swiftly. He moves to put the gloves back on, but John rests a hand on his, stopping him. “Transport, remember?”

“I don’t think that’s quite true,” John says quietly, and Sherlock looks away. “This wasn’t done in a hospital. Field surgery, that is.”

“We didn’t have a choice.”

“Christ.” John shakes his head, a thousand images springing to mind. “Still, it could have been worse. Do you have full use of the other three fingers?”

Sherlock nods and flexes them for emphasis. Greg squeezes his shoulder and then withdraws. John leans back in his chair and reaches for his tea, and they all lapse into a companionable silence.

Charlie lifts his head and rests it on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock blinks down at the dog and then gives him a quick smile. 

“Hello,” he says, scratching behind one of Charlie’s ears with his three fingers. “What is it?”

Charlie licks the damaged hand happily and then returns his head to Sherlock’s leg, where he promptly falls asleep again. Sherlock, astoundingly, doesn’t protest. John and Greg exchange glances. _This_ is new, patience and tenderness being far from Sherlock’s strong suits before his fall.

John begins to suspect that he has much more to thank Victor for than just saving Sherlock’s life.

\----

Sherlock sleeps that night in an unfamiliar bed in the room that used to be his own. His rest is far from easy, and he realises that he’s not used to sleeping without Victor nearby. He gives up on the idea of sleep in the hour before dawn, and spends his morning trying to catch up on everything he missed during the eighteen months he was away. 

It’s strange, he muses while he pokes around on his computer, being away from Victor for so long. For eighteen months they were never apart for more than a few hours at a time, and it was rare for them to have been separated by more than a few streets. But now Victor is in a hospital on the other side of London, and Sherlock feels his absence acutely. He feels odd and wrong, as though he is missing a vital part of himself. It’s as alien to him as his mangled hand.

Victor is still asleep when visiting hours at the hospital finally begin, but Sherlock kisses him on the forehead in greeting anyway.

“You must wake up,” he says quietly to his unconscious friend. He strokes a strand of hair out of Victor’s eyes. “You _must,_ Victor. I need you.”

\----

John visits the hospital again the next evening.

“Any change?” he asks as he comes into the room, holding two coffees. He hands one to Sherlock and keeps the other cradled in his hands. Sherlock shakes his head. In the bed next to his chair, Victor sleeps on.

"He's been through a lot," John tries to reassure, though he does notice that Victor is now on four liters of oxygen. Yesterday it had only been two. He pulls up a chair next to Sherlock in the confines of the small room, made smaller still by all the medical equipment. They face one another, leaning forward on forearms braced on thighs, cradling their cups. "His body has been severely traumatized. It might be some time before things turn around, but they will."

Sherlock nods, and then pointedly switches the line of conversation.

They talk. Not about Moriarty or Istanbul or Athens or all of the other places Sherlock’s vendetta took him. Rather, they speak of old cases and the current crime spree that’s gripping the headlines; they talk of bees and football. John has so many questions that he doesn’t even know where to begin, and so he doesn’t. All of that will come in time, which they now--blissfully, miraculously--have.

As the dinner hour comes and goes, John tosses his half-finished drink in the wastepaper bin. “Come back to the flat with me. Please. You’re exhausted.”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “I can’t. Later, perhaps.”

John swallows hard, trying to clamp down on the anger that flares in his chest. He’s only partially successful. It doesn’t hurt, it _shouldn’t_ hurt, that Sherlock is choosing this not-stranger over them. It shouldn’t infuriate John that they are once again the ones being shut out of Sherlock’s life, but damn it, it _does_.

“Okay. Well. If you need anything...” John trails off. Sherlock looks up.

“What?”

_ Don’t say it _ , John mentally berates himself, but he has never been very good at listening to reason. Eighteen months of running around after Sherlock is testament enough to _that_.

“It’s just,” John wets his lips, takes a breath, “well. At least you knew how it felt, to be left behind. To have someone waltz out of your life one day and stroll back in years later, as though nothing had changed.”

Sherlock is out of his chair like a shot. He crowds John up against the wall, fists a hand in the front of his shirt and holds John in place with a strength John never before knew him to possess.

“Don’t you _ever,”_ Sherlock snarls, eyes flashing fire, “try to compare the two situations again. For eleven _years_ he was mine and I was his. Can you even fathom that? When he died, the world stopped. Yes, I died, I left you, but _you moved on_. As you should have.”

Sherlock releases him abruptly and takes a step back, sucking in great lungfuls of air as he tries to regain control of himself.

“I don’t doubt your grief,” he says at last, soft, resolutely not meeting John’s gaze, “but don’t ever pretend to know how I felt when he died. Or how I felt at his resurrection. The only way you _could_ know... is if it happened to Lestrade.”

Sherlock turns abruptly and goes back over to the bed. He resumes his seat at Victor’s side and takes a limp hand in his own.

“Good night, John,” he says stiffly, and John knows he has been dismissed.

They don’t speak of it again.

\----

He goes from darkness to sudden awareness, his senses assaulted by white and bright light. There are voices and blurred silhouettes all around him, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t bring them into focus. He tries desperately to speak, forming the words clearly in his mind, but he can’t force them past his tongue. When he tries to move, his limbs fail to respond, and panic sets in. He is trapped.

Someone touches his forehead, and that’s the last thing he remembers.

 

The second time Victor wakes, it’s dark and he is alone.

His memory is vague. He can recall gunshots and blood, and doesn’t remember what happened after he shot Moran. Sherlock isn’t at his side, and Victor fears the worst. But his vision is hazy and his limbs are lead, and he can’t even pull himself into a sitting position, let alone ask for his friend.

He falls asleep again without meaning to, and dreams only of Sherlock.

 

The third time Victor wakes, the world has ceased being stubbornly blurry. He’s in a hospital room, and it is dark once again. Perhaps it’s night.

“It’s a snowstorm, actually,” says a voice to his right.

Victor’s eyelids are too heavy to keep open for long, but he doesn’t need eyes to place that voice. He drags a tongue across cracked lips and tries to formulate all the questions running through his mind, but this is Sherlock, after all. He starts to answer them without Victor speaking a word.

“We’re back in England now,” he says.

“How long?” Victor rasps.

“It’s been nearly a week since we left Rome.”

“And I’ve been unconscious for that long? Jesus...”

“It’s the chelation therapy. They’re still trying to target all of the poison you had ingested. It’s a lengthy process,” Sherlock says, and he runs gentle fingers through Victor’s hair.

Victor forces open leaden eyes and drags them over to Sherlock’s face.

His hair is in the process of darkening to ebony again, and it grew out during their time in Rome, enough so that it’s starting to curl at the ends once more. Gone are the coloured contacts, and Sherlock gazes at him through the stormy-grey eyes Victor remembers from Before. He’s dressed in his usual smart shirt and dark trousers, and he’s wearing the watch Victor gave him for his twentieth birthday.

To look at him now is like gazing into the past, back to when they were young and whole and on the brink of something they couldn’t name. Now, they are a little more lined, a little more broken, and a little more in love.

“I thought you were dead,” Victor croaks. Sherlock’s impassive face breaks into a bemused smile.

“Why?”

“Dunno,” Victor rasps. “Seems like something you would do. Dying on the eve of your return. Very poetic.”

Sherlock snorts and Victor closes his eyes again. He’s not sure how much time passes, but when he opens them again snow is still falling and Sherlock is still at his side. The darkness beyond the window is impenetrable.

Victor is too tired for words. He holds out his hand, palm up, and after a moment Sherlock takes it. He tugs, and Sherlock seems to take his meaning. He kicks off his shoes and then slides onto the bed, wedging himself between Victor and the railing. He’s skinny enough that the narrow strip of mattress is more than adequate. Victor sighs, satisfied, and falls asleep again.

Sherlock is still there when he wakes for the third time that night. His head has fallen onto Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock’s left hand rests on his thigh. He’s holding a book in his other hand, reading at a pace Victor wouldn’t be able to keep up with even on a good day. When he notices Victor awake, Sherlock sets aside the book.

“Hello,” Victor murmurs. Sherlock kisses his forehead, and Victor feels his lips curve into a smile against his skin.

“Hello. Do you feel all right?”

“I’ve had worse,” Victor points out. “You?”

“I was uninjured.”

“Thank God,” Victor says softly. “Have you seen John, yet? Mycroft?”

“John, yes. Mycroft and I have spoken by phone.” Sherlock pauses for a moment, and Victor can tell that there’s more he wants to say. “Victor... about Lestrade. He’s alive.”

He explains Moran’s ruse, and Victor’s anger at himself nearly outweighs his relief. He _should have known_. But Sherlock can’t quite keep the smile from his voice, even though his face is largely impassive, and Victor finds himself returning it. 

_ Lestrade is alive. _

Sherlock’s silence after that is long, however, and contemplative. Victor knows what is coming. 

“You gave up everything just to keep me safe,” he says quietly. Victor shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “No. If it kept you safe, then I gave up _nothing_.”

Sherlock turns his head to press his lips against Victor’s temple.

“Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me everything.”

And so Victor does. 

He speaks of the attempts on Sherlock’s life prior to his supposed death; he talks about secret meetings with Mycroft and his staff in order to discuss upgrading Sherlock’s security level. He talks about his continued work with Mycroft, the planned mission in Bolivia - and then the car crash.

“The car crash was an attempt on your life, that much was true,” Victor says softly. Speaking for long periods of time drains him, and he has to pause for breath between sentences. “But not because of me. And if I hadn’t been where I was sitting, you would have died. Mycroft took advantage of the unexpected opportunity and started the Bolivia mission early, but when it was over... I decided that the best way to protect you was to stay dead. That way I could watch over you more effectively. Root out the necessary threats. Protect you from yourself, even, when it came to that.”

“The night I overdosed...” Sherlock trails off. Victor nods groggily.

“Yes. I was the one who called Greg. Thank God he took to heart the word of a stranger; I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t.”

“So you did know everything. _Everything_ about my life.”

“Not quite,” Victor amends. “I didn’t know what it was like to live that life _with_ you. I was just an observer. But you were safe, and that was all that mattered.”

“You were there. At every turn.”

“You see?” Victor attempts to smile, but it’s more of a struggle not to weep. “I never truly left you.”

Sherlock turns, folds him into a tight embrace, and Victor loses his battle against the onslaught of emotion.

“Mycroft sold your flat,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear sometime later, after Victor has composed himself, “but he kept your things. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find you a new place. In the meantime, you’ll stay at Baker Street.”

“Mm,” Victor agrees groggily.

“You could even stay permanently, I suppose. John may yet move out and live with Lestrade.”

Victor snorts.

“Doubt it. John’s never going to leave you, and Greg is terrible at co-habitation. So are we, come to think of it, when we’re not saving the world.”

Sherlock concedes his point with a wordless grunt. “They got married.”

“Don’t be getting any ideas.”

“Never.” Sherlock’s hand tightens on Victor’s thigh. “We’ve kept your return quiet. You’re listed under your French alias here at the hospital, though we may want to revisit that name at a later point in time. _Jean_ and _John_... might get confusing. And, needless to say, I’d rather not be calling out my flatmate’s name when -”

“Sherlock,” Victor whispers, bringing a finger to Sherlock’s lips and fighting back laughter. “Shut up. Forget about my alias. We’ve come this far. If I’m going to return to this city, it will be as myself. I’ll not live with you and pretend to be anyone other than who I am. And whatever comes because of that... we’ll meet it together.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. Then he turns and presses his lips against Victor’s forehead, murmuring, “We’re _home,_ Victor.”

Victor tugs the corner of his mouth into a quick smile. “Doesn’t feel much different.”

He feels Sherlock shift in surprise. “Doesn’t it?”

“No.” Victor tucks himself against Sherlock’s side and murmurs, “Everywhere was home with you.”

\----

Mycroft had organized their return to England and Victor’s hospitalization. But he doesn’t see Sherlock for nearly a week after his return. Even though Victor has woken, Sherlock can’t be pried from his bedside.

It’s only when Mycroft makes a personal visit to the hospital that something akin to hesitation flickers across Sherlock’s face. Greg Lestrade, who stopped by on his lunch break to bring Sherlock some decent food, lays a hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“Go,” he says quietly. “I’ll sit with Victor.”

Sherlock gives in, finally, and follows his brother from the room. They go to Mycroft’s office.

“I thought you should know,” Mycroft says, sitting behind his desk, “that we’ve finished bringing Moriarty back. Richard Brook is officially dead.”

Sherlock nods mutely.

“We’ve also,” Mycroft continues, “gathered the bodies you left behind at the warehouse in Rome. Their deaths have been passed off as a drug operation gone wrong. I’ve managed to explain away the majority of your activities across three continents. Enough so that no one will suspect anything, at any rate.”

“Right,” Sherlock whispers. “Good, then.”

“Indeed. Your work has been restored.”

“I’m aware.” Sherlock gets to his feet. “Is that all?”

Mycroft also stands.

“How are you, Sherlock?”

The question catches his brother off-guard. His damaged hand twitches, and for a brief moment he looks as though he’s going to give a caustic reply.

But then Sherlock sags. He looks grey and worn, his eyes red from too many nights awake.

“He’s not getting better, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s words are distant. “It’s been days. They give him painkillers, they give him medication, but still he struggles to breathe. Struggles to stay awake, struggles with pain, just... struggles. Everything is an effort, and he’s not getting better.”

Sherlock appears to mentally shake himself, and when he meets Mycroft’s gaze again his eyes are cold and clear.

“Apologies,” he says woodenly. “I’m fine, Mycroft, thank you for inquiring. If you’ll excuse me, I should be getting back.”

“He’s not getting worse.” Mycroft tucks his hands into his pockets and says it again, because his little brother is falling apart in front of him and Mycroft has never wanted anything more than to fix things; fix _him_. “He’s not getting worse, Sherlock, do keep that in mind. _Relax_. He’s been in more perilous situations than this, I can guarantee that.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock says dully. “You kept all that from me, remember?”

He’s almost to the door when Mycroft decides to speak again.

“When Victor’s mission in Bolivia ended,” he says quietly, “I came to him with plans for his resurrection. He asked if something like that was going to happen again - not the mission, but the accident. The car crash. The attempt on your life. I told him it had, in fact, happened three times before--and that it would undoubtedly happen again.”

“Three,” Sherlock says weakly. Mycroft nods.

“I then made the mistake of mentioning that, if Victor hadn’t been sitting in that seat, you would have died. I said it was luck that he had chosen it. He saved your life--perhaps without meaning to, but that’s what happened all the same. Victor went quiet for a moment after that. And then he said, ‘What if I could? What if I _could_ save his life?’”

“And you let him.”

Mycroft inclined his head.

“I knew that, in order to truly keep you safe, I would have to call on my best resources. He is one of them. And he has always been there for you, even if you never realised it. He never left you, Sherlock. And he never will.”

\----

When Victor wakes again, Sherlock’s usual chair is empty. But he isn’t alone.

“Hello,” Greg Lestrade says. He gives Victor a lopsided, sheepish smile. “Awake, are we?”

“Such as it is,” Victor murmurs. His blanket has pooled around his waist, the result of a restless sleep. He’s cold and his throat is dry, but he can’t summon the strength to do anything about either of those discomforts. Greg leans forward and tugs the blanket back into place, covering Victor’s arms and chest in the process. It’s an absent-minded movement; automatic.

God, but he hasn’t changed. Victor feels his throat tighten.

“Bit of a shock, this, I take it,” Greg offers hesitantly into the silence.

“Sherlock told me about you being alive,” Victor rasps. “But yeah, it was... a surprise.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I had the two of you come back to life on the same day. It’s gonna take some getting used to all around, I think.” Greg leans back in his chair and crosses his ankle over his knee. “I’d ask how you feel, but to be honest you look awful. Anything I can do to help?”

Victor swallows and shakes his head, aware that he’s staring at Lestrade as though he can’t quite believe his eyes - which, in part, is true. Part of him fears, irrationally, that Lestrade will disappear the moment he blinks.

He wonders if this is how Sherlock felt, all those months ago, standing the shadowed foyer of Victor’s French home.

Victor catches a glint out of the corner of his eye and drops his gaze to see Greg fiddling with his lighter, twirling it between his fingers and tossing it from hand to hand. It’s a nervous gesture, and an old one. Victor remembers it from afternoons spent over at Sherlock’s old flat, watching him and Greg go over the finer points of a particularly difficult case.

“I heard about your dad,” Greg says, still looking uncertain but making a valiant effort all the same. “I’d say sorry, but he was a right son of a bitch, wasn’t he? You deserved better.”

“It’s all right,” Victor mutters, because he doesn’t really want to talk about his father right now.

“You’re something else, you know that?” Greg’s rambling now, they both know that, but Victor doesn’t particularly care and Greg can’t help it. Another nervous habit. “It’s one thing to fake a death. It’s another to stay away for Sherlock’s own good. God, Victor, the strength that must have taken...”

“Don’t,” Victor says weakly. “It wasn’t strength, it was cowardice.”

Greg cocks his head to the side.

“That’s not true.”

Victor sighs.

“My intentions were noble enough,” he says, almost bitter, “but there’s part of me that wonders... Well. I wonder sometimes if my motivation to stay away was fueled by the fact that I didn’t think I could face Sherlock after all that I put him through.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment.” Greg leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and regarding Victor carefully. “You were keeping him safe the only way that you knew how. You _died_ for him, Victor, so that you could protect him. I think that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Victor doesn’t know which of them moves first, but he does know that when he slumps forward Greg is there to catch him up in a crushing embrace, hands pressing flat against Victor’s back while Victor breathes in the scent of wet wool; feels the scrape of Greg’s coat against his face. Greg draws a halting breath, and when he next speaks, his words are barely more than a whisper.

“I’m so proud of you. So _fucking_ proud, Victor. Welcome home, lad.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is one last warning I need to add to this fic: the next installment contains _major character death_. There was a reason for my distinguishing between major and minor characters at the beginning of chapter 4, and for withholding this warning until now--mostly because of the way chapter 17 ended. Since this is a chapter-specific warning, I have elected to warn in the chapter notes rather than on the overall story tags.
> 
> Also, while I have stuck as close to medical science as is possible when it comes to arsenic poisoning/treatment/effects in these next two installments, I did need to take a few liberties. If that bothers you, avoid the next two chapters. There are also some upcoming heavy religious themes, and lengthy descriptions of illness/hospital procedures.
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> I know many of you are going to bow out at this point due to the newest warning, which I completely understand. Before you go, however, I want to take a moment to extend my deepest gratitude to you all. I have been completely blown away by the response to this version of Victor. I can’t tell you what it means to know that you all like him so much. I also can’t even begin to describe how wonderful it was to have people eagerly awaiting the next chapter every week. I am so flattered, and so honored.  
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> Many thanks must also be given to my betas, and a special one has to be extended to Lists. She prompted me last July to write some S/V, and this is the result. Thank you for the inspiration, and thank you for all the support along the way.  
> 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock quickly becomes adept at lying to Victor.   
  


It’s a skill he never before possessed, but in the days after Victor wakes up he finds that it becomes a necessity.

“They say you’re doing well,” is his constant refrain whenever Victor turns questioning eyes on him, and so far Victor has not appeared to doubt his sincerity.

There have been many conferences over the past few days with Victor’s team of doctors, and they usually occur while Victor is asleep. He has difficulty staying awake for more than a few hours at a time, and as a result Sherlock very quickly becomes more familiar with Victor’s condition than the patient himself. 

The best advice the medical staff can give them at the moment is to be patient. There are too many unknowns in this situation—the exact length of the poisoning, for one, and how high those first doses were. And while Victor appears to be tolerating the treatment, the words that Sherlock spoke to Mycroft last week still echo in his ears.

_ He’s not getting better _ . 

The arsenic has now left Victor’s body, but his damaged organs are slow in recuperating. He remains on oxygen, which is increased to five liters, and at one point is taken for a lung biopsy in order to determine the full extent of the damage to that organ. Throughout it all, he mostly retains his usual good humour. This is sometimes exaggerated when he is coming off anesthesia or on large amounts of painkillers, and as a result he develops a tendency to flirt shamelessly with the hospital staff. 

“Oh, this one’s nice,” Victor murmurs as a technician draws blood from his arm. “What’s your number, lad?”

“You don’t have a phone,” Sherlock points out helpfully. The mobiles they had used during their mission have been confiscated by Mycroft and, hopefully, destroyed. Victor attempts an exaggerated eye roll.

“Bit jealous, this one,” he says in an undertone to the technician, who gives him an indulgent smile. “Always has been.”

“I am _not.”_

But every once in a while, the enormity of the situation catches up with Victor, and Sherlock catches a shadow cross his features.

“I hate this,” he murmurs one night, drowsy with painkillers, as visiting hours draw to a close. 

“I know,” Sherlock says softly. “Which is why you’d best get better soon. And if I have to make Mycroft come in here and personally order you to, I will. Baker Street awaits.”

Victor’s lips curve into a lazy smile. “As do you.”

Sherlock kisses his brow. 

“As do I. Always.”

\----

Victor wakes at odd intervals over the next few days, and it’s usually to find a technician drawing blood from his arm while Sherlock keeps an uneasy watch at his side. 

Time passes unimaginably slowly when he is awake, and not even Sherlock can fill all of the empty hours. Victor finds that he is too weak to hold a book for extended amounts of time, and the television is nothing but drivel. He is hooked up to equipment that monitors his heart, for hypertension is a side effect of the chelation therapy. Between that, the oxygen, and the IV line, Victor is virtually chained to the bed. Even if he weren’t, there is nowhere for him to go.

It is maddening.

But when he succumbs to unconsciousness, hours and days pass in the blink of an eye. There is never any warning, and no reason to his sleeping patterns. One moment, he will be awake and talking with Sherlock. The next, he will blink open his eyes to discover that it is night, or day, or that someone else is sitting at his side so that Sherlock can have a reprieve.

One morning two weeks into his hospitalization, Victor wakes with the shift change. The chair beside his bed is empty, for once, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief. Much as he appreciates the company, he can only handle the worry of one person at a time, and right now he is having difficulty dealing with Sherlock’s in addition to his own unease.

He can sense that something isn’t right.

But the day nurses come and go, and Victor finds he cannot return to his blissfully oblivious slumber. He aches from sitting in the bed for too long, aches from lack of stimulation, feels dull and useless and _grey_. And that’s when he decides that he no longer gives a damn about the equipment beeping at his side, nor about the oxygen or the IV line. He needs to get out of this godforsaken bed.

He removes the oxygen line from his nose first, and doesn’t feel a noticeable change in his breathing. The nodes stuck to his chest are the next to go, and their removal immediately triggers an alarm. Victor ignores the sound and swings his legs over the side of the bed, half-rising off the mattress, testing his legs before he trusts them with the full weight of his body. Finally, he straightens, and though his steps are unsteady he is at least able to walk. He grabs the IV cart and drags it with him.

He doesn’t make it much farther than the sink in the private room before the door opens and a team of nurses pour in, but it is enough.

Victor grips the side of the sink and stares at his reflection, heedless of the clamour around him.

“Jesus,” he breathes to himself. 

It’s the first time he has seen his reflection in two weeks, and the sight shocks him. The skin is stretched tight across the bones of his face. His eyes are bruised, his lips are white, and his face is the colour of dust. His hair, which has largely returned to its normal shade of brown, is streaked with grey that wasn’t there a month ago.

A hand grips his elbow, a nurse trying to steer him back to bed, and Victor throws him off in irritation.

_ “Leave me,”  _ he snarls.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but -”

“Enough.”

The new voice is quieter than Victor’s own, but it carries in a way that Victor’s cannot. The nurses stop their bustling and turn to look at Sherlock, who is standing the doorway, clearly having just come in out of the cold. Victor looks away, turns his gaze to his white-knuckled grip on the sink and waits for the room to clear. It does so after a moment of hesitation, and then they are alone.

“Victor,” Sherlock says finally, but he doesn’t come closer. Victor understands the unspoken plea and moves back over to the bed under his own power. Sherlock replaces the oxygen line once Victor has settled himself, and then resumes his seat.

Victor hadn’t realised how badly his hands were shaking until now, when he is holding nothing, and he laces his fingers together in an effort to stop the tremors. He has aged twenty years in less than a month, and it is terrifying.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, “what the devil is happening to me?”

For once, Sherlock has no answer.

\----

The next morning, one of Victor’s physicians comes by the room just after the shift change. 

Sherlock is used to Victor’s doctors moving and operating as a team; seeing one of them here on her own is disconcerting and unusual. He never bothered to commit her name to memory--all the doctors have blurred together in his mind--but her badge says _Warren_. 

“How is he?” she asks, taking a seat by Sherlock next to Victor’s bed. Victor is asleep, as is usual. 

“You’d know better than I,” Sherlock says shortly, thrown off by this new development as well. The doctors don’t sit, and they certainly don’t converse. 

This is new. 

This is _wrong_. 

“Mr Holmes,” Dr. Warren starts quietly, “we’ve had some of his most recent test results come back from the lab. The damage caused by the arsenic is severe, more so than we first believed. The poison operated unchecked for far too long. I’m sorry to be the bearer of this news, but I’m afraid it looks like the damage is irreversible.”

Sherlock stares at her for a long moment. He then blinks rapidly, trying to order his thoughts and make sense of her words.

“Sorry,” he says finally, “but what are you trying to say?”

The corner of her mouth tugs downward.

“I’m saying that there’s very little we can do for him at this point,” she says softly. “The treatment isn’t going to be enough. While it might rid his body of the poison, it can’t repair his damaged organs.”

“He’s dying,” Sherlock says dully, going cold with the realisation. He had envisioned a number of scenarios for Victor, each one involving a lengthy and grueling rehabilitation, but never - not _once_ \- had he considered that this would be the end. It couldn’t possibly be, not after everything they had been through.

The physician nods slowly.

“Arsenic targets the lungs, kidneys, and liver,” she says. “His are all failing. We will do everything we can to keep him comfortable, but -”

“He was fine,” Sherlock interrupts. “Just three weeks ago, he was _fine.”_

Warren shakes her head slowly.

“No, he wasn’t,” she says quietly. “He had cold a few months back, didn’t he, and it never seemed to go away. And he started to lose weight - not much, but his clothes stopped fitting him properly. The hair loss started around that time, too, but it was barely noticeable and hardly uncommon for a man his age. Am I right?”

Sherlock feels the world tilt around him. He remembers the cough that never went away, the headaches, the drowsiness, the confusion... He can trace the symptoms as far back as that summer, when they were in Iowa.

“And then the flu,” he says numbly. She nods.

“Yes, and then the flu. When enough poison had built up in his system, it manifested itself as symptoms of the flu--vomiting and pain being most prominent of those. Except there were added, inexplicable anomalies. Like the length of the illness, and the muscle spasms.” The corner of her mouth twists in sympathy, and Sherlock looks away. “He’s been ingesting this poison for months, Mr Holmes. At least half a year. We would have had to catch this a month ago, two months, to have had any chance of saving him. And at that point, there was no way his symptoms were troubling enough to even have considered poison.”

“It wasn’t my fault, you’re trying to say,” Sherlock says harshly, suddenly irritated. “Save your breath, and don’t speak again of things you cannot possibly comprehend.”

“I am so very sorry,” she says quietly, unfazed by his outburst, and Sherlock’s anger instantly shatters around his ears, leaving him feeling only hollow.

“How long?” Sherlock asks, doing a mental calculation in his head. Victor’s been away from the source of the poison for over two weeks, and he isn’t getting worse. There are ways to keep his organs going, even after they fail, and Sherlock’s heard stories of men who managed to cling to life for months after a severe poisoning. And Mycroft’s got the best scientists in the world at his disposal. If Victor could just hold on –

But then the doctor says, “Days. Perhaps a week,” and Sherlock goes lightheaded.

“Days,” he repeats dumbly.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him again, this time with a hand at his elbow. “He will be comfortable, I promise you that. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but it’s something we will do.”

Sherlock nods stiffly and tugs his arm from her grip.

“Thank you,” he says woodenly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He reaches for his mobile and calls his brother.

\----

Victor is put on six liters of oxygen that afternoon as his breathing becomes more laborious.

He sleeps again for a time, the added oxygen easing his struggle, but when he wakes towards evening he turns questioning eyes on Sherlock—and this time, Sherlock realises his lies aren’t going to be enough.

“Sher,” Victor whispers, his strained breathing audible in his words, “what’s going on?”

“It’s only a setback,” Sherlock attempts, giving a forced smile. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve spoken with your doctor already.”

“Don’t.” Victor’s fingertips are on his face, chips of ice against his cheek, silencing him. “Don’t lie. Remember… I’ve seen that look in your eyes before.”

He manages another shuddering breath, and adds, “It means I’m dying... and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Tell me.”

Sherlock swallows hard once, twice, and passes a trembling hand over his mouth.

“It’s the poison,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the _whoosh_ of the hospital equipment. “They can’t - God -”

Victor presses his fingertips into Sherlock’s knee. His expression is torn between shock and sympathy. Sherlock curls his hand around Victor’s and struggles to find the words he needs to say.

“The poison has been running rampant for at least six months now,” he says stiffly. “The damage to your organs is too severe. They’re failing, Vic.”

“How long?”

Sherlock doesn’t want to answer, _can’t_ answer, but somewhere a voice says, “Days,” and Victor nods, jaw going tight.

“Days,” he repeats to himself. “Oh, Christ.”

He swallows hard, and adds, “What are we to do with _days?”_

Sherlock takes his hand, and Victor holds on so tightly that it’s painful.

\-----

Mycroft accomplishes, with brisk efficiency, the one thing that Sherlock could not do.

In less than a week, he has tracked down Victor’s killers.

“The branches of the network were dismantled,” he tells Sherlock quietly. They’re sitting at Victor’s bedside, because nothing short of a force of nature will pull Sherlock away from the hospital at this point. “That you know, of course. But there is no way to eliminate every person ever connected to Moriarty, and his operatives live still. Thanks to you, they no longer have an employer, but up until the moment you dispatched Moran, they were following his orders. Following you.”

He pulls out a file folder and hands it to Sherlock, who holds it without looking at its contents.

“They poisoned the entire water table in that town in Iowa,” Mycroft goes on, “just to get Victor. You were also exposed, as were the townspeople, but your exposure was so brief that it hardly left a mark. You were tired the entire time you were there, but nothing more. And the symptoms ended when you left. Just as the poison left the water table.”

“And followed us.”

Mycroft nods.

“It followed you to a diner in Nebraska,” he says, “where someone slipped it into Victor’s drink. Likely, it was the same man who brought you news of Greg Lestrade’s death. It found you at a rest stop in Idaho, when a gas station attendant gave Victor a free bottle of water. It was in the hotel room you stayed at in Oregon. Every time you stopped, every time you set down roots, someone was there with the poison. When you settled in Rome, it was very easy for the operatives to target Victor, and Victor alone. It appears as though five operatives were involved, as well as people along the way that they paid off to administer the poison if they couldn’t do it themselves.”

He answers Sherlock’s next question before he has time to fully form it.

“My people have them all in our custody. They shall be... dealt with.”

“How?”

“Brutally.”

“Swiftly?”

“No,” Mycroft answers immediately. “Not at all.”

Sherlock nods absently.

“Thank you.”

Mycroft shifts, making to rise, but Sherlock holds out a hand and he stills.

“There must be something you can do.” He doesn’t recognise his own voice, so low and raw it sounds. He drops his gaze from Victor’s face and half-turns toward Mycroft, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Mycroft remains perfectly still. “Please.”

“Sherlock.”

“You have the greatest scientific minds in the world at your disposal,” Sherlock plunges on, ignoring Mycroft’s quiet plea. “You _run_ Baskerville.”

“Sherlock -”

“I’ll offer my services in return.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft leans forward; Sherlock still won’t turn and meet his eyes. “If it were within my power to save him, it would have been done yesterday. With or without the offer of something in return.”

Sherlock’s quiet, despairing moan is cut off by Victor beginning to rouse. Mycroft rises from his chair, deftly positioning himself between Victor and Sherlock, buying his brother a few seconds to compose himself.

“It’s good to see you back, Mr Trevor, I must say,” he says in greeting as Victor wakes. “Even if you are a little worse for wear.”

“I’ve had worse,” Victor says mildly. “Hullo, Mycroft.”

“Indeed you have. Unfortunately, I must impress upon a bit of your time. I’m sorry it has to be so soon after your return, but it is vital that we begin your debriefing as soon as possible, before the details have a chance to fade. Do you feel up to talking?”

“No.” Sherlock is on his feet, a protest on his lips, but Victor holds up his hand.

“It’s all right, Sherlock, I can handle it,” he says softly. “I’m just a bit tired, is all. Why don’t you take a break for a bit?”

“Give me an hour,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock, knowing that this is yet another battle he won’t be winning, concedes defeat with a bitter nod and leaves the room.

\----

John and Lestrade have taken turns keeping Sherlock company at the hospital, and sometimes provide a buffer between Sherlock’s worry and Victor’s strained nerves.

It’s Lestrade who stops by this evening, as he’s on a quick dinner break from the Yard. Sherlock recognises his step as he enters the tiny chapel; listens to him pause in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dim light until he finally recognises Sherlock’s silhouette in the middle of one of the pews. They are the only ones in the quiet room.

“What are you doing up here?” Lestrade asks. “Took me twenty minutes to find you; couldn’t think of where you might have gone if you weren’t with Victor, and Mycroft was less than helpful.”

“He usually is.”

“So. Banned you from the room finally, did he?” Lestrade’s voice is teasing. He takes a seat next to Sherlock in the pew. “You mean well, son, but all that worrying is probably driving Victor up the bloody wall.”

“Mycroft’s debriefing him,” Sherlock says flatly.

Lestrade arches an eyebrow. “Surely that could have waited.”

Sherlock lets out a huff of bitter laughter.

“Oh, how wrong you are, Lestrade,” he mutters darkly. When Lestrade turns sideways to look at him quizzically, Sherlock says, “There’s no time. It can’t have waited, because he’s dying.”

Lestrade is speechless for a moment. The silence that follows is so quiet that Sherlock imagines he can hear the flickering of the candles along the walls; the crackle and pop of the ravenous flames.

“How?” Lestrade manages finally.

Sherlock snorts.

“It’s the poison. Would you believe it? After all that, after everything we went through... It’s the bloody poison. An enemy he can’t even see, let alone face on his feet. Isn’t that funny?” Sherlock is quiet a moment. “Ironic. I suppose it would be ironic, actually.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade sounds stunned. “My God. How long have you known?”

“I found out this morning.” Sherlock swallows hard. “I... told him about it this afternoon.”

“How’s he taking it?”

Sherlock lets out a broken chuckle that might well have been a failed sob.

“Well,” he says softly. “Very... very well.”

“I am _so_ sorry,” Lestrade manages. _“God.”_

“I’m not the one who’s dying,” Sherlock snaps. He loosens his right hand, which has been curled into a fist, and removes Victor’s pendant from the center of his palm. He turns it over in his hands several times, staring unseeingly at the tarnished metal. After all they had been through - the gunfights, the running, the explosion - this alone has come through unscathed.

Sherlock can feel nothing but contempt for it.

But when the doctors had removed it from Victor’s neck back in Italy, Sherlock had held onto it. He has been unable to discard it since.

_ “Those who have done good, will go into life everlasting,”  _ Sherlock whispers, _“but those who have done evil, into eternal fire._ The Athanasian Creed.”

“I know.”

But Lestrade is a lapsed Catholic, having left his faith behind with his childhood. It was a phase, one that he eventually grew out of, discarding it as rational people do when illusions no longer offer sufficient explanation for the world around them.

“He killed people, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, eyes still on the pendant. “But he kept me safe. He loves. He feels pain, he feels joy. He loves the sea, but drowning is his greatest fear. He’s ticklish. He sings. He’s the most infuriating man sometimes. But none of that matters. All that matters is whether he was _good_ or not.”

Sherlock swallows hard and adds, “He thinks he’s going to burn. There’s not a doubt in his mind about that. He’s always believed it. I’ll never understand…”

He trails off and looks up finally, gaze fixing on the bare cross on the far wall.

“I can’t go through this again,” he mutters. “I can’t. I can’t watch him -”

Sherlock stops and passes a hand over his face. Lestrade lays a gentle arm across his shoulders, and doesn’t insult him with useless platitudes.

\----

Victor has fallen asleep again by the time Sherlock returns to the room, and Mycroft is once again sitting in a chair, keeping watch in his brother’s stead. They exchange a nod, and Sherlock sits as Mycroft rises to depart.

Mycroft pauses by Victor’s side and lays a hand on his forehead. He is silent for some moments, gazing down at Victor’s slackened features, his own face unreadable.

And then, before he leaves, Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Ease his way, brother. As he has done for you on so many occasions.”

By the time Sherlock finds his voice again, Mycroft has already gone.

“I don’t know how,” he whispers to no one.

He is answered only by the _whoosh_ of the oxygen that is keeping Victor alive, and the _beep_ of the machines counting down to his death.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is major character death at the end of this installment.

Victor is quiet.

Sherlock is used to Victor’s words. He was always the more vocal of the two of them, and could talk for hours on end. Back at university, he had regaled Sherlock with tales of his travels with his father as a boy; in the eighteen months they had been abroad, he spoke of past missions for Mycroft. He wove tales involving ancient families and old feuds; he talked of spies and wars and a million other things only ever found in stories.

But now he is quiet, except for his strained breathing, which echoes in Sherlock’s ears. And so Sherlock finds himself inadequately trying to fill the silences, because he’s not used to so much of it while Victor is in the room.

Sherlock can manage only halting sentences at first, but slowly his speech picks up rhythm and he’s able to string whole thoughts together. He speaks of the reunion with John and Lestrade and the final demise of Richard Brook; he talks about Baker Street and Angelo’s and all the different facets of the life they would have had together.

Victor continues to say nothing. He stares at Sherlock through bleary eyes, his gaze largely unfocused and not entirely lucid. Sherlock struggles to fill the empty hours, and eventually finds himself back at university, recounting events they both know well for lack of anything better to say. But then he sees the corners of Victor’s eyes crinkle at the mention of a long-ago spring holiday, and his heart feels lighter than it has in days. Victor at last is smiling.

“You wanted to dance, do you remember?” Sherlock asks, leaning close, a smile stretching unbidden across his face at the memory. “But, God, Victor, you were _terrible_. How someone could be so uncoordinated, I’ll never know.”

Later on, Victor reaches out and presses two fingers against Sherlock’s collarbone. 

“I was wondering... where that went,” Victor wheezes, brushing the pendant at Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock blinks, his hand automatically going to the medal. He forgot that he had put it on only a few hours back.

“They took it off in Italy,” he says finally. “I kept it. Here, I don’t know why I never gave it back to you -”

Victor stills his hands.

“Keep it,” he says quietly. “I think you need it more than I do.”

He leans back against the pillows, his eyes suddenly bright and the corner of his mouth twitching downwards.

“God, Sherlock,” he wheezes, “I’m sorry - I’m _so_ sorry -”

“Breathe,” Sherlock instructs, fighting down his own sorrow. He rubs Victor’s shoulder, trying to calm him. “It’s - it’s fine. It’s all right.”

Victor closes his eyes and draws great lungfuls of air. His heart rate slows, though when he opens his eyes again Sherlock sees that they are too bright. He turns away to straighten the blankets that cover Victor’s legs, and pretends not to notice the drop of liquid Victor swipes away from the corner of his eye.

“Well,” Victor manages, “I suppose there’s one good thing that will come of this.”

Sherlock stares blankly at him.

“What are you on about?”

Victor touches his cheek.

“This time… I won’t grow old without you.”

\----

John comes to the hospital one evening during one of Victor’s fleeting moments of consciousness and lucidity.

Sherlock is asleep. His head rests on the mattress, cushioned on his arm, and his left hand rests on Victor’s knee. Victor has threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and he’s gently stroking Sherlock’s scalp. He glances at the door and gives a weary wave when John looks in.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” John says in a hushed voice as he enters the room. 

“S’all right,” Victor murmurs. “Sit down.”

John does so, his gaze traveling automatically to the machines that are hooked up to Victor.

“How do you feel?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. Victor’s blood oxygen is low, and his pulse is thready--two vital organs that have been severely weakened by the poison. His kidneys won’t be long in following. But John’s question is automatic; so is Victor’s response.

“Fine,” he says quietly. “Don’t worry about me. Did you come to take him for some food?”

John pushes down concern at the rattle in Victor’s chest and nods.

“I figured he could use with the break. Has he been asleep long?”

“Two hours,” Victor says softly. He looks down at Sherlock. “Sleeps like the dead, this one.”

He grimaces, and then adds, “Poor choice of words, that. Sorry.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

Victor shakes his head slowly. But then he pauses, and a contemplative look comes over his face.

“John... can I ask you something?”

John leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Name it,” he says quietly.

“When this is all over,” Victor whispers, “you need to be there for him. And I don’t mean as a friend. Though he’ll need that, too. I mean that you need to keep him safe, John. Because I won’t be able to anymore.”

John considers him for a moment.

“Let me tell you something,” he says at last. “Did you ever read about our first case together? The one with the cabbie?”

Victor nods slowly.

“I was the one who shot him,” John says softly, and that’s something he had never before even admitted to Greg, though he suspects that his husband figured that one out long ago. “I killed for Sherlock before we even truly knew one another, and I’ll do it again in a heartbeat if necessary. I have an unregistered weapon that’s never more than an arm’s length away from me. I assure you, Victor, if Sherlock dies, then Greg and I are dead right along with him. They’ll have to shoot through the both of us to get to him, you can count on that.”

Victor swallows hard.

“God, John,” he says at last, eyes bright, “I think I’d have liked to get to know you. Thank you.”

He holds out his hand, and John clasps it firmly.

“Do you need anything while we’re away?” he asks. Victor considers him a moment.

“Now that you mention it, yes,” he whispers. “A pen, and some paper. Can’t seem to find any in this room.”

His words are becoming more brittle, and John places a hand on his shoulder.

“Just breathe,” he instructs. “No more talking for a bit, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Victor obliges, and is quiet for the ten minutes it takes John to locate the items. He ends up having to go to a nurses’ station, and when he returns Victor is beginning to drift off.

“Thank you,” Victor says wearily as John puts the pen and paper on his bedside table. His words sound less strained now. “Give us a moment. I’ll wake him for you. Will? William.”

John gathers his jacket and moves respectfully out into the hall while Sherlock begins to rouse.

 

They have dinner at the hospital.

John eats a salad while Sherlock nurses a cup of coffee. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair is mussed from his brief rest.

“Brought you something,” John says, and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. He pushes them across the table; Sherlock eyes him warily.

“What’s this for?”

“Thought you could use some,” John says. “And no, Mycroft didn’t put me up to this. I figured, what with one thing and another... you could use a vice.”

Sherlock steps outside to smoke while John finishes his food. When he follows, he finds Sherlock around the back of the hospital.

“Why does Victor call you _Will?”_ John asks as he approaches. “I thought I misunderstood the first time, but he definitely calls you that.”

Sherlock blows a long stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth and flicks some ash from his cigarette.

“It’s my first name,” he says after a time. “William. I was named after my father.”

“So Sherlock’s your... middle name?” John ventures. Sherlock nods.

“Father died when I was quite young,” he says. His voice sounds dull to John’s ears; absent. “It’s not something I like to be reminded of. I haven’t gone by his name since I was ten.”

“You let Victor use it.”

“I’d let Victor call me _Sherly_ if it made him happy,” Sherlock says, and they share a dry chuckle. He takes another drag on the cigarette and adds, “And anyway, it’s different when he says it.”

He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath the heel of his shoe.

“I should be getting back,” he says. John nods.

They walk back up to Victor’s floor, and John slips inside his room to say goodbye while Sherlock is in the toilet. Victor hands him two folded sheets of paper.

“Give that to him, would you,” Victor says, his voice thin, “when this is all over.”

John nods, his throat tight, and tucks the letter away.

“I promise.”

\----

Greg is still awake when John comes home that evening.

He’s reading by the fireplace, Charlie asleep at his feet, and looks up when John comes into the flat.

“How is he?” Greg asks as John goes into the kitchen for a beer.

“Which one?” John returns to the main room with two bottles and hands one to Greg, who nods his thanks.

“Victor. Well, both, really.”

“Victor’s all right. He’s handling it better than Sherlock, but that might be because he’s not entirely with it. Those painkillers are brutal. It might not have sunk in entirely.” John sighs through his nose. “He’s not in pain. That’s about the only good thing I can say. I’ll be surprised if he makes it past the New Year.”

John settles in a chair across from Greg and props his feet on the table between them. Greg sets aside his book. The lines at the corner of his eyes are deep tonight, and his mouth is pinched with strain. He had been the one to initially break the news about Victor to John, and it had taken him nearly five minutes to form the words. It’s nothing short of a cruelty, him discovering that Victor is still alive only for it to end like this.

Sherlock isn’t the only one losing Victor.

“I’ve been thinking,” Greg says after a moment, “that, this year, in light of all that’s happened... I might stay here for Christmas. Given the circumstances, I think that’s best.”

John, who has seen this coming for days, nods.

“I had a feeling you want that,” John tells him. “I already called Harry and my parents and canceled our plans. We’re staying here.”

Greg looks at him, surprised.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly. “You can still go.”

John shakes his head.

“Not without you. You need to be here... so I do, too. Besides, Sherlock is my best friend, Greg. I’m not leaving him now.”

John knocks back the rest of his beer and gets to his feet. The fact that goes unspoken between them is that Sherlock and Victor were broken young men when Greg first met them, and John doesn’t know where they would be right now without him. They had gone to the ends of the Earth for him, and Greg would do the same for them if given half the chance. And now one of them was dying, the other was falling apart, and Greg looked like as though it was taking all of his resources just to keep his composure.

John leans down and kisses the top of Greg’s head.

“And they’re your boys,” he says quietly. “They need you here.”

\----

One morning, Victor is conscious and lucid long enough to leave his bed. 

He doesn’t go far, only to an armchair over by the window--a cushioned one that Sherlock dragged in from the lounge down the hall. Victor doesn’t know how Sherlock managed to get it past the nurses, but he suspects that a good deal of charm was involved--especially given the way the day nurse keeps shooting him lingering glances as she goes about her business.

“Prick,” Victor mutters good-naturedly when she leaves the room, and Sherlock smirks.

The winter sun feels warm on Victor’s face, the cold air that accompanies it kept at bay by the glass. If Victor closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s summer, and that he’s anywhere but here.

He can pretend this isn’t happening. 

But that illusion only lasts for so long. In less than half an hour he’s having to reach for the oxygen line again, and Sherlock’s cool fingers slide between his own, holding on. 

“I should have seen it,” Sherlock says quietly. He curls his free hand into a fist. “I’m a _chemist_. I should have seen the signs for what they were.”

_ “You  _ should have seen it?” Victor asks wearily. “I’ve _used_ that poison on people before. It didn’t even occur to me...”

He trails off, and they lapse into silence for a bit.

“I was going to give it up,” Sherlock whispers. “When you came home. I was going to retire.”

“So early,” Victor wheezes, though he’s one to talk. Had he survived this, Mycroft would have discharged him from his service. Sherlock nods. 

“I don’t need the work when you’re around, not really,” he says quietly. “I don’t want it, even. It would distract me from you... and you would distract me from it.”

Sherlock pauses to brush a strand of hair off Victor’s forehead. 

“I wouldn’t be able to have you both, not for very long. It worked before because I had only been at it a few years when you died. But I can’t have both, and don’t for a second believe that I would choose anything over you.” He swallows and repeats, bitterly, “I was going to give it up.”

Victor squeezes Sherlock’s hand.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “When this is over... don’t. Promise me.”

“I can’t -”

_ “Promise _ me.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightens and he blinks rapidly several times. Finally, he gives a tight nod. 

Victor falls asleep in the chair, hand still in Sherlock’s, less than an hour later.

It’s the last time he leaves the bed.

\----

Three days pass in a haze.

Victor’s condition deteriorates rapidly, and there is very little time for words anymore. He spends most of his time unconscious due to the painkillers, and when he is awake he lacks the strength to do little more than hold Sherlock’s hand and stare at him through bleary eyes, as though trying to commit his face to memory.

Day and night blend into one, and Sherlock doesn’t realise that it’s Christmas Eve until the tinny seasonal music from a radio in the room next door penetrates the fog around his mind.

Victor’s fever spikes late in the morning, and his kidneys start to fail not long after. His skin is no longer pale, but ashen, and paper-thin against Sherlock’s lips. He kisses Victor’s cheek and tastes salt; smells the sweet, worn scent of someone who has spent too many days ill in this bed. Victor is wracked with chills and slick with sweat as his body overheats, and every breath is a struggle.

Eventually, Victor refuses to allow them to administer any more painkillers, nor any kind of medication that will add to his exhaustion. He starts to fade quickly as the lingering medication leaves his system. He shivers with fever and pain etches deep lines into his face, but he refuses to give in to sleep when there is so little time left. Air rattles in his chest, in his failing lungs, and each strained breath is a knife in Sherlock’s gut.

“Sher...”

“I’m here.” Sherlock leans forward. “What is it?”

“Don’t... be looking like that.” Victor reaches out and runs the back of a finger down Sherlock’s cheek. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, despite the struggle it is for him to form words. “I always thought... I’d live the rest of my life without you. Die... without you. I never dreamed I could be so lucky... to have you at my side again. And you’re going to be fine without me. Just as you were before.”

And Sherlock, who doesn’t want that to be true, closes his eyes and clutches Victor’s ice-cold hand in both of his. Victor gives a ragged sigh, and his tone changes.

“Oh, Will,” he whispers, weak voice full of sorrow. “More than anything else on this Earth, I never wanted to hurt you. And now I’ve done it twice over. I am so sorry.”

“No.”

Sherlock leans forward, takes Victor’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together. Victor fists his hands in Sherlock’s shirt and drags him closer. He is trembling with grief, and Sherlock is shocked to feel that there are hot tears on his face. Never once in their years together had Sherlock seen Victor lose his composure, not quite like this, not even when things fell apart with his father.

“No, Victor, don’t... shh,” he says quietly as Victor draws shuddering, uneven breaths. “No fault lies with you.”

_ Ease his way, brother _ .

“And I am fine,” Sherlock lies. He releases Victor’s face and draws him instead into a tight embrace. “I... I will be fine. I promise.”

He moves fully onto the bed without releasing his hold on Victor. He can’t remember the last time he did this, held Victor for any reason other than providing the necessity of warmth. He can’t recall the last time it was even sensible for him to do so, for Victor was always the larger of the two, both taller and more broad.

But gone now are the powerful arms that used to hold him; gone is Victor’s quiet strength. He is far lighter now than Sherlock can ever remember him being, more bones than muscle.

This is so very different from how he pictured their homecoming.

Sheer willpower isn’t enough, not in the face of this silent monster, and a little while later Victor loses his battle with exhaustion. He falls asleep tucked in Sherlock’s embrace.

Midnight finds Sherlock still awake, and still with Victor in his arms. Victor misses the bells that ring out from a nearby midnight church service, but they fail to escape Sherlock’s notice, much as he tries not to hear them. He listens, thinking of last Christmas; trying to ignore all the ones they now will never have.

When morning dawns, he can’t wake Victor.

\-------

They don’t have days anymore.

At best, there are only hours left.

Sherlock doesn’t hear everything the doctors are trying to tell him, can’t comprehend this new blow, but when they have gone John kneels in front of him and tries to meet his gaze.

“He’s sleeping now,” John says gently. “He probably won’t wake again. It’ll be painless, Sherlock.”

Lestrade is sitting next to him, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“We can stay with you,” he says.

Sherlock shakes his head wordlessly, and Lestrade squeezes his shoulder.

“We’ll be in the lounge, then,” he decides, and John nods.

Sherlock goes over to the window as they say their goodbyes to Victor. He tries not to hear their words, yet fails to miss the shaky, “Goodnight, son,” from Lestrade.

He watches the empty street below, for once devoid of both people and traffic.

It’s Christmas Day, and everything is silent.

 

Hours pass without Sherlock having noticed them.

The hospital chaplain administers last rites while Sherlock sits on the bed, his eyes fixed unseeingly on Victor’s pallid face and his hand curled around Victor’s limp one. He doesn’t care what the chaplain makes of the scene, and is in no mood to cater to another person’s whims by removing himself from the room.

_ ...thou art absolved of all past error and freed to  _ _ take your place in the world He has prepared for us... _

The IV is then removed, as is all but the most basic of the monitoring equipment. The oxygen line remains.

After that, there are no more visits from doctors or nurses. Even the technicians stay away, and this is perhaps the most disheartening thing of all.

They are no longer monitoring Victor’s condition. Now, they are simply waiting for him to die.

“Will...”

The rush of breath that carries his name is faint, barely more than a sigh, and Sherlock isn’t entirely sure that it hasn’t been imagined. But Victor is awake and looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes that threaten to close again at any moment, and Sherlock reaches for his hand.

“Yes,” he says, moving from his chair to sit on the bed. Victor’s fingers twitch in his grip. “I’m here.”

But Victor says nothing more. His eyelids flutter and his gaze slips out of focus, and he is gone on the next exhale.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
>  **Notes:** I have taken a few liberties with the layout of 221b in this part. Some of Sherlock’s dialogue comes directly from “The Adventure of the _Gloria Scott_.” Stanley Hopkins and Tobias Gregson are characters from ACD canon.
> 
>  
> 
> And, yes, I do realize how unlikely the commendation that occurs later in this chapter is. I indulged in a bit of _deus ex Mycroft_ , if you will.
> 
> * * *

They bury Victor on New Year’s Day.

It’s bad for a long time after that.

Sherlock speaks little and eats less. He sleeps for days on end, though whether this is by choice or his body shutting down of its own accord, John can’t tell. 

During the brief stretches of time that he is awake, Sherlock doesn’t leave the building. John has noticed, however, that while Sherlock largely doesn’t speak to them, he will gravitate toward whatever room John and Greg happen to be in, and on the rare occasion that they are both at work, Sherlock steals downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s. 

“They spent a year and a half together,” Greg says quietly one night, when he and John are both in bed. “I don’t think he’s used to being alone anymore.”

Greg bears the brunt of Sherlock’s grief, probably because he has known Sherlock longer and they have been through this before. More than once, John has come home to hushed voices in the kitchen and Greg speaking Victor’s name, but the conversations always cease the moment his footsteps are heard.

Sherlock doesn’t speak of Victor when he is with John, and John doesn’t ask about him. He suspects that he represents normalcy; that he represents a time after Victor, and after grief. John can’t imagine what it’s like to have lost a love twice over; to have been given hope and had it snatched cruelly away again. God only knows what it will do to Sherlock, in the end.

But for now, Sherlock starts working minor cases for Lestrade again, which they can only take as a good sign. John writes up the interesting ones--of which there are few--and tries to ignore the feeling of too much space in the flat.

Victor never lived here, and yet John feels his absence acutely.

\----

Sherlock doesn’t play the violin anymore.

He tries, once, when Greg is at work and John is upstairs napping between shifts. John wakes to the sound of off-key notes and frustrated strains, and waits until Sherlock has put the instrument away before venturing downstairs. He doesn’t mention that he overheard the music, and Sherlock says nothing about it.

But over the next few days, Sherlock’s violin and sheets of music slowly vanish from the room.

John never sees them again.

Two weeks later, however, John comes home from work to find that the furniture in the main room has shifted in order to accommodate a piano that is now sitting in the corner.

“What’s this?” he asks, hanging his jacket on the back of the door.

“A piano, John,” Sherlock says dryly. John rolls his eyes, but sees that there is a hint of a smile on Sherlock’s lips. It is a heartening sight.

“This was Victor’s,” he goes on, sobering. He brushes a hand over the smooth wood. “It was part of his father’s estate. Vic used to play. Years ago. I don’t think he kept it up, but he was quite talented.”

Sherlock never plays when John and Greg are around. But every now and again, when he’s lying awake in the middle of the night, John will hear the sound of careful chords drift up from the piano in the main room.

\----

Sherlock doesn’t put his website back online.

He starts taking on more and more cases for the Yard, but he won’t do any private consulting. John begins to receive requests for Sherlock’s help on his own blog, and he responds to each one the same way.

_ Not today. _

\----

John comes home from work one day to find Greg sitting on the low wall just in front of Baker Street, smoking. 

He finds that he automatically relaxes at the sight of his husband, the weary veil that clouds his mind after a long day at the clinic lifting slightly. Greg doesn’t notice him until he takes a seat on the wall as well.

“Hello, stranger,” John says, tucking his hands into his pockets and extending his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. 

Greg blows a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from John, and then gives a soft, “‘lo, John.”

His face is pinched. Today hasn’t been a good one, then.

“How is he?”

“Asleep on the sofa. I thought it best not to disturb him.”

John gives a slow nod, slightly relieved. Sherlock has fallen into his old pattern of not sleeping while working on a case. As far as John can tell, he’s been awake for the past three days.

They watch the traffic for a while. The weather is unexpectedly brilliant today--it’s warm sitting in the sun, though the breeze that kicks up now and again makes them thankful for their jackets. The sharp, refreshing smell of spring tinges the air, and puffy clouds skirt across an ocean-blue sky. For a brief moment, out here, away from Sherlock’s heavy grief, John feels light and carefree. He has his husband--his _world_ \--and this beautiful day. He can’t imagine anything more perfect than this. 

It only lasts for a few minutes, and then a surge of empathy knots his gut once more.

Sherlock will never have this again. 

John places a hand on Greg’s knee and Greg turns to look at him, puzzled. They aren’t affectionate in public, and rarely ever touch. 

“You know, there are times,” John says quietly, “when all I can think... is thank _God_ it wasn’t you in that hospital bed. Thank God you weren’t the one who -”

He breaks off and swallows hard. The cool air stings his eyes--at least, that’s what he chooses to believe. He wonders if it’s terrible of him to feel this way, but doesn’t ask that out loud. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer. 

Greg is a long time in responding. He slowly finishes his cigarette and extinguishes it beneath his heel. He then folds his hands in his lap and turns his gaze to the passersby across the street. But he also shifts imperceptibly closer, and their shoulders brush.

“There’s not a day that goes by,” he says finally, “when I don’t feel the same, Johnny. I don’t think I could bear to be without you.”

Greg’s hand finds John’s and he laces their fingers together. His thumb brushes John’s ring absently and they sit there, hands clasped, holding on, for an age.

\----

Sherlock reaches for Victor in the middle of the night.

His dreams are forgettable, if indeed he has them at all, but there is always an impression of someone nearby--he can feel a puff of breath against his ear; a phantom arm wrapped around his waist; a heavy weight against his back.

But he always wakes with a hand outstretched, reaching for Victor and meeting a stone-cold pillow instead. 

And sometimes, when the pain is too much and all he wants to do is scream, he reaches for his new mobile and texts a number that no longer exists. 

_ I hate you.  _

_ I hate you I hate you I hate you. _

_ I miss you. _

_ I need you. _

\----

Sherlock is quiet. 

It’s not his lack of words that concerns Greg, for that’s nothing new. But there is also a lack of sound around Sherlock now, too. He goes quietly about his tasks, instead of completing them in his former frenzied manner. He doesn’t bang the cupboard doors or dash out of the flat, coat whirling behind him and door left open in his wake. Now, everything he does is measured and subdued. Sherlock’s razor-sharp energy has been dulled by his grief, and Greg finds himself wondering if it will ever return. 

One morning, Sherlock is awake and in the kitchen when Greg comes downstairs. He’s standing by the sink, watching the horizon, a mug cradled in his hands as he leans a hip against the counter. The tiny window above the sink doesn’t have much of a view, but for a few months every year it does perfectly frame the spring sunrise. 

He doesn’t look around when Greg enters the kitchen. 

“You’re up early,” Greg comments as he searches for a clean mug. He means, _You haven’t been sleeping_. 

“I know.”

“Something interesting out there?” Greg asks. He pours himself some coffee. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Not really.”

They spend a companionable few minutes together in the kitchen while Greg nurses his coffee and checks his email. Sherlock continues to stare blankly out the window, and the silence is nearly unbearable. Greg’s about to leave the kitchen--he’s supposed to be at the Yard in thirty minutes, and when did that happen?--when Sherlock’s soft voice calls him back.

“It’s all wrong.”

“Hmm?” Greg turns around in the doorway. Sherlock is looking at him finally. His cheeks are hollow and his eyes are tired, and Greg doesn’t want to think about how much weight he’s lost. Sherlock finishes off his own coffee with a grimace and sets the mug aside. 

“It’s all wrong,” Sherlock repeats. “All of it. All of this. It’s like a piece of the sky is missing. The world can go on without it, of course, but you’d prefer having it whole.”

Greg considers him for a long moment, an ache in his chest. Sherlock seldom acknowledges the loss out loud, and never around John. This is the only time he’s ever completely honest about it, when it’s just the two of them, and even that is rare. Greg walks over to him and places a bracing hand on his shoulder.

“I miss him, too, Sherlock.”

\----

The cruelest thing of all--perhaps even more so than Victor’s death itself--is that life goes on.

January and February melt into March, and soon they will be marking three months since Victor’s death. Sherlock distracts himself with cases, probably more than he can handle at a time, but John doesn’t have the heart to try to discourage him. He tags along and writes about a handful of them, and every once in a while, he can pretend that this all feels like normal; that they have returned to how things were before.

But then he is pulled from his fantasy by a comment on a blog post asking for more details regarding Sherlock’s hiatus, or by a fleeting look of misery on Sherlock’s face that he masks once he realises that he is being watched.

Things will never be the same again.

“Were you planning to write about my absence?”

John looks up from his reading, startled out of his thoughts at Sherlock’s abrupt question.

And then he finds he has no words. He has been receiving questions on his blog about those missing eighteen months, from both readers and journalists alike, and has so far given them only vague answers. He’s curious himself, to be honest, and the public interest is certainly there. But he has no idea how to broach the subject with Sherlock, not with Victor’s death still so raw. He’s not even sure that he really wants to. It seems callous.

“No,” John decides finally. “Everyone’s curious, yeah, but I’m not going to do that to you. Not until--not _unless_ \--you want me to.”

Sherlock considers him for a long moment. Then he walks over to the desk in the corner and pulls out a thick folder.

“Here,” he says, handing it over. “Everything that happened over the past eighteen months you’ll find documented in there. I’ve been compiling the information since... well.”

He stops, clears his throat, and then finally meets John’s gaze.

“When you write about it,” he says, eyes overly bright, “write about _him_. About us. Tell them that we had eleven years together. Tell them that we had eighteen more months than we should have. And tell them... that it wasn’t enough.”

John nods, and swallows past a thick throat.

“I will.”

Sherlock pauses on his way out of the room again. He turns, puts his hands in his pockets, leans against the doorframe and regards John carefully.

“No,” he decides finally, “tell them this. Tell them that Victor was a hearty, full-blooded fellow. He was full of spirits and energy; the very opposite of me in near every respect. Tell them that he was brilliant; that he was beautiful, and the best man I ever knew. And tell them,” and here Sherlock’s voice wavers, “that what we had was a bond of union. Because I never could say it myself.”

Later that night, John returns from taking Charlie for a walk to find Sherlock standing by the bookcase in the main room, holding an open book in his left hand. But he’s not reading, as John thought at first glance. He’s staring blankly instead at the two sheets of paper he stuck between the pages of the book weeks ago, on the night they brought him home from the hospital after Victor’s death.

“Have you read it?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock doesn’t lift his eyes from Victor’s last letter.

“I can’t,” he says, and his voice cracks. John nods solemnly.

“Maybe not. At least, not yet. But someday... someday you will.”

\----

Mycroft stops by Baker Street one rainy afternoon.

John and Lestrade are out for the day, and so Sherlock doesn’t bother to answer the downstairs door when he hears the chime. If it’s important enough, Mycroft will find his own way inside. 

And, less than three minutes later, Mycroft raps politely on the door to the flat, having presumably either picked the lock on the door downstairs or having been let in by Mrs Hudson. Sherlock doesn’t answer him then, either, but Mycroft doesn’t go away. There comes a scraping of a key in the lock, and he opens the door.

“I had a key made prior to your moving in,” he says when Sherlock glances at him from his armchair before returning to his reading. “I had hoped I would never have reason to use it.”

“Surely there’s nothing so important that you have to resort to breaking into my flat with a key I never gave you,” Sherlock mutters in irritation, not taking his eyes off his book. Mycroft takes a seat in the armchair opposite. He’s holding a thick folder, and he is without his umbrella and ever-present PA today. It is just the two of them.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been ignoring you. There’s a difference.”

“Not much of one.” Mycroft sets down his file folder on the table between them, and Sherlock glances at it. “You know why I’m here.”

“And you know why I’ve been ignoring you.” Sherlock shuts his book with a snap and sets it aside. He says, quietly, “Victor’s will.”

“Yes. One of many things we discussed during his debriefing. I’ll leave you to look over the finer points of it at your own leisure, but suffice to say, he left you everything.” Mycroft pauses. “There’s something else I wish to tell you, however.”

Mycroft reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a small box. Sherlock takes it from him and, at Mycroft’s small nod, opens it. 

“Victor received a number of honours during his time in my service,” Mycroft says quietly as Sherlock gazes at the small medal nestled on a velvet cushion. “I’m sorry that this one has to be awarded posthumously. It’s -”

“It’s the Victoria Cross. Yes, I know it,” Sherlock says softly, brushing his fingers over the medal. “I don’t delete _everything_ , Mycroft.”

“Typically, it’s presented during a ceremony at the palace but, well, I had a feeling you would decline such a spectacle.” Mycroft catches Sherlock’s gaze and holds it. “I’m glad to have known him, Sherlock. He will be missed.”

“He already is.” Sherlock closes the box but keeps it cradled in his hands. “Will that be all?”

“Yes. Thank you for indulging me.”

Mycroft pushes himself to his feet and, after placing a hand briefly on Sherlock’s shoulder, makes for the door.

“Is he dead?”

Sherlock hadn’t been intending to voice the question out loud-- _stupid, stupid, of course he’s dead_ \--but it had clawed at his throat and rang in his ears until he could stand it no longer. It’s a thought that has started plaguing him mostly at night, replacing his dreams of Victor with nightmares of chasing a shadowy man, one who always remains maddeningly just out of reach.

Mycroft pauses on the threshold.

“You faked his death once,” Sherlock says quietly. “Who’s to say you couldn’t do it again?”

“Sherlock -”

_ “Is he dead, Mycroft?” _

The silence that follows rings in his ears. When Mycroft speaks again, however, his voice is impassive. 

“Sherlock. Look at me.”

“Just _tell_ me -”

_ “Look at me.” _

Sherlock does. 

Mycroft’s face is solemn and there is no light behind his grey eyes. His expression is one of grim determination, steeling himself to give the answer to Sherlock’s question, and Sherlock finds himself faltering. Suddenly, he’s not sure if he wants to know the answer.

The thing is, despite appearances to the contrary, his brother has never once lied to him. He’s kept Sherlock in the dark, yes, and conducted business behind closed doors that he never intended for Sherlock to know. And while he has kept secrets from Sherlock, he has never outright lied—at least, not when directly asked. One needed only to phrase the question properly. And if Sherlock had had any suspicions about Victor’s first death - if only he had thought to voice those three words five years ago - 

Sherlock shakes the regrets from his mind and asks again, quietly, “Is he dead?”

Mycroft is so long in answering that Sherlock’s heart stumbles against his ribcage and a small flame of hope lights in his chest.

But then he gives a small nod, and Sherlock’s world ends all over again.

“Yes. He’s gone, Sherlock. And he won’t be coming back.”

 

When Mycroft has left, Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and goes over to his bookshelf, his hand automatically going for the apiology tome that holds Victor’s final letter. He pulls it from its resting place and lets the book fall from his hands. It lands on the floor with a heavy thud, its spine breaking, but Sherlock doesn’t care. 

With shaking hands, he unfolds the two sheets of paper and begins to read.

\----

Three days later, Sherlock puts his website back online.

He takes his first private case in nearly two years the very next day.

  


* * *

  
  
_Will,_

_ I know you’d scoff at the idea of this, me writing a letter to you for when everything’s over. Boring and clichéd, you’d say. Perhaps you’re right. But I think you need it, regardless. And, if nothing else, I need it. _

_ The mission didn’t allow us the luxury of keeping physical markers of our relationship, and God only knows what Mycroft saved from my flat after my death five years ago. Let this be both my farewell and my declaration, then, committed to the page so that you may never doubt it--and so that you will always have it. _

 

The end of March comes about in a burst of greens, yellows, and whites as London overnight shakes off the final vestiges of winter and begins the process of rebirth. The days are endless and golden; the sky a perpetual deep blue. In an instant, the cruelties of winter are forgotten, as though they never happened at all.

Sherlock started assisting the Yard once more back in January, mere weeks after Victor’s death, and finds that the circle of Inspectors who seek his counsel has widened considerably. He no longer consults only for Lestrade, but also for Liam Dimmock and Tobias Gregson. In March, he is introduced to Stanley Hopkins, an intriguing new Detective Sergeant whose observational skills are promising, if in need of honing. Sherlock has indulged his questions on a number of occasions and started to instruct him on the science of deduction. Hopkins is always fascinated and, if a bit skeptical, is at least never derisive.  He is also very rarely boring, a fact that is only beginning to penetrate the numb haze around Sherlock’s mind as March wears on. He files it away for later contemplation.

John and Lestrade are spending the Easter holiday this year with John’s mother, and in their absence Sherlock is given permission to use Lestrade’s car. There is one final piece of business to dispense with; something he has been ignoring since the day he first read Victor’s letter.

The streets are quiet and the churches are full to bursting that Sunday morning as he heads out of London and makes for Sussex Downs.

 

_ As I’m sure Mycroft has already informed you, I’m leaving to you everything that is mine. This includes my father’s estate, my own French home, and whatever possessions were salvaged from my London flat. I don’t care about any of those, and I doubt you do either. Do with them as you wish, even if it means simply burning them to the ground. _

_ But I want you to keep the cottage in the South Downs. _

 

By the time Sherlock reaches the southern shore of their island country, the weather has changed dramatically. The sun has disappeared behind a steel wall of grey, and there’s a sharp scent of rain in the air.

The cottage among the yews is, on sight, unremarkable. The whitewashed walls are clean, nature not having left a mark on them. Flowers are blooming in the immaculate garden, and a stiff breeze is beginning to stir the branches above Sherlock’s head.

He finds the key in its usual hiding place, and lets himself into the cottage.

 

_ God only knows what shape it’s in now. Hopefully, Father’s staff has been looking after it in his stead. I don’t think anyone has used the place since we were there sixteen summers ago. _

_ I suppose that means the cottage is now, as it ever was, ours. Perhaps that will be some comfort to you. I know it is to me. _

 

The cottage is small but cozy, and though it was never used as a permanent residence it has all the comforts of one. Sherlock pauses on the threshold, sweeping his eyes over the darkened interior, breathing in the well-worn scent of polished wood. The disused furniture has been covered with white sheets, and he can make out the eerie outlines of the sofa and chairs before the cold fireplace; the small tables and the grandfather clock standing in the corner.

The kitchen is empty but immaculate, as is the loo. Sherlock moves from room to room, not sure what he’s looking for, if indeed he’s looking for anything at all. Aside from the cleaning staff, it doesn’t appear as though anyone has used the place in years. It is virtually untouched, and unchanged, since his visit with Victor all those years ago.

He almost expects to blink and see Victor peeling off rain-soaked clothing before the flickering fire, or hear the chime of the clock announce an hour that is too late for words because they have passed yet another evening completely engrossed in one another.

But when Sherlock blinks, all he sees is a dying house; all he hears is silence.

 

_ I know what you’d say if I told this to your face. You would refuse my father’s estate; my own possessions. You would refuse the cottage. Material items have never meant anything to you, and you can’t understand the point in holding onto them after a death. _

_ At least, that’s what you always claim. Somehow, though, I think you understand just a little bit more than you let on. _

 

There are two bedrooms in the cottage, one intended for guests and the second one for the Trevors. Sherlock never saw the inside of the guest bedroom during his time here, and he doesn’t bother to glance inside now as he passes by.

But the bedroom at the end of the hall is where they truly began all those years ago; where they cemented the furtive looks and tentative touches and that first, hesitant kiss in the rain. Here, too, everything is covered in white, protected from the passage of time by a thin piece of fabric.

Sherlock removes the cover from the bed.

The oak four-poster underneath is the same one from that summer. Even the quilt is the same, the soft periwinkle that Victor always thought was atrocious. Sherlock presses a hand to the mattress, feels the give, and knows instantly that not a thing about this bed has changed. This was _their_ bed, this before any other, and in that moment of realisation the last of his misgivings flee.

He will not be giving up this house.

 

_ I never wanted it to end like this. I never wanted it to end at all. I’d have liked to grow old and fat with you, believe me. But I’ll settle for the knowledge that you are safe. You’d best have a stupidly long life, Will. Do that for me. _

_ And keep the cottage. For you. For the bees. For the days that we’ll never have. _

 

When he finally leaves the bedroom, an age has passed. The world outside is dark, even though it is only the middle of the afternoon, and when Sherlock goes into the main room he hears the sound of rain on the roof.

There is a door on the opposite side of the room that leads to the back of the property, and for a time Sherlock stands just inside the threshold, watching the rain. He can see through the thickening, wet mist the fields that lay beyond the cottage. He knows they will be perfect for his future hives.

The rain is warm and welcoming, as it was on that first night, and Sherlock steps out into it.

 

_ And when it rains, think of me. _

 

Sherlock turns his face to the sky. The water lashes his face and races down his neck, seeping under his clothes and soaking him through in seconds.

 

_ Think of me, and know that you were loved. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has followed this fic over the past couple of months. I’m so very grateful to all of you, and to all of the feedback I received. Thanks also to my betas, to Lists, and to the Pointy Stick Committee, who gathered every Sunday on Twitter to (figuratively) poke me with pointy sticks until I updated.
> 
> There is an alternate, happier ending to this fic that I couldn't help but indulge in. It can be read [over at my LiveJournal,](http://impishtubist.livejournal.com/86858.html) if anyone is interested. It picks up right after chapter 21. No new warnings apply--unless you'd like to be warned for fluff. Of which there is a lot.


	25. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Edit 3.5.2015:** Apologies to those of you who happen to still be subscribed to updates from this fic. I've had a handful of requests over the past two years to put the alternate ending on AO3 as well as my LJ, so I've finally decided to do that now. This is not new content.
> 
> This alternate ending picks up right after Chapter 21.

Victor comes home on New Year’s Day.

It’s bad for a long time after that.

Victor sleeps little and eats less, his body weak from its ordeal and from the four weeks he spent lying half-conscious in a hospital bed. It’s the second time he’s had a hospital visit so lengthy, and it brings back ugly memories for him of the first, when he had been abandoned in a strange country with no one but strangers for company and everyone he loved thinking him dead.

At first, Sherlock allows Victor the entirety of his bed and relocates out to the sofa at night to sleep. But he abandons that plan the fourth time Victor wakes in the middle of the night, chased out of sleep by yet another bout of pain.

“I’m fine,” Victor mutters when Sherlock appears in the bathroom doorway. He splashes cold water on his damp face, and his t-shirt is soaked completely through with sweat.

“Shut up,” Sherlock says, and helps him back to bed.

He starts sharing the vast bed with Victor at night after that, so that he can be on hand to aid Victor if necessary. They manage the pain with medication that leaves Victor drowsy at best and nauseated at worst, and for the most part there is nothing he can do but ride it out until his body heals. He spends most hours of the day in Sherlock’s bed, either asleep or too pained to get up. Sherlock tries not to crowd him and attempts not to worry. He only succeeds at one of those, and starts taking on small, private cases in order to keep occupied.

And yet, somehow, between the pain and the sleepless nights, life starts to go on.

\-----

The flat is too quiet one day in early January, with John and Lestrade having both left for work and Victor asleep in the bedroom. Sherlock, out of desperation, pulls up his blog and checks for any new cases. There’s nothing of any particular interest, but at this point he will accept even something dull so long as it at least quiets some of the static in his mind.

He leaves the flat and returns four hours later, having solved one case involving a jewel theft and another involving a duck and some very enthusiastic circus performers. When he comes back inside, he notices that Victor has vacated the bedroom. He’s sleeping in an oversized armchair before the fireplace, one of the many items of furniture John purchased in an effort to make Baker Street his own after Sherlock’s fall. Victor’s feet are propped up on a low table, and Charlie is asleep on a nearby rug.

“Vic.” Sherlock touches light fingertips to Victor’s cheek, which rouses him. “What are you doing out here?”

Victor stretches, and one of his shoulders pops.

“The usual,” he murmurs, gazing through heavy-lidded eyes at Sherlock. “Sleeping yet another day away. Thought I could use a bit of a change in scenery. I’m tired of staring at your ceiling. The one out here is much more interesting. See?”

Sherlock stares at him in bemusement.

“I think,” he says quietly, stooping to press a kiss to Victor’s cheek, “you need to lay off those pain medications. You’re not making much sense.”

“You just can’t keep up with my incredible thought processes. It all makes sense in my head.” Victor gives him a bleary smile and tweaks his collar. Sherlock rolls his eyes and straightens. “Actually, I’m glad you’re back so soon. I have something for you.”

“Mm?” Sherlock hangs his coat on the back of the door and looks around. “What’s that, now?”

Victor nods to the mantel. Sherlock looks over and notices a nondescript box sitting there, wrapped in plain brown paper.

“For you,” Victor repeats, and Sherlock plucks the box off the mantel.

“For what?”

Victor’s mouth quirks.

“For surviving to see thirty-five, old man. Happy birthday, git.”

Sherlock laughs and plucks at the string tying the package.

“Here, budge up,” he says, and Victor scoots over. There is room enough for them both in the oversized armchair, and Sherlock settles in whilst continuing to unwrap the package. He opens the box and pulls out a brand-new watch--titanium this time, as opposed to the platinum one Victor had gifted him fifteen years ago.

“Your other one has seen better days,” Victor points out groggily. He taps the face of the watch with his fingernail. “This one could probably survive being thrown into a volcano - or it should, given its price. I’d tell you the designer, but to be honest I can’t pronounce the name.”

“You know, I’m starting to believe we should keep you on those medications,” Sherlock says dryly. “You’re much more amusing like this.”

“Ha, ha.” Victor points at the box. “There’s something else in there.”

Sherlock digs around amidst the wrapping and emerges after a few moments with a key. He raises an eyebrow.

“It’s for the cottage,” Victor tells him quietly. “The one in the South Downs. Where we -”

“The one where we began,” Sherlock says softly, remembering that school holiday from all those years ago. “Victor, this is _yours.”_

Victor shakes his head.

“No,” he says quietly, “it’s _ours_. My father left me everything, turns out. His estate, his money, _everything_. He never bothered to rewrite his will after I died, Lord only knows why. So I thought... well, you’ve always talked about keeping bees someday. If you wanted... we could move out there when you retire.”

Sherlock turns the key over in his fingers, a small smile touching his lips.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, of course.”

Victor squeezes his knee.

“There’s one last thing.”

He reaches over to the small table that sits next to the armchair, the one that has unofficially been designated as the place where they all discard the post. Sherlock’s penknife has been relocated from the mantel to the table, and Victor plucks it out in order to pick up the top letter. He hands it over.

“Mycroft stopped by earlier today,” he says, “with these papers. I thought you might like to know.”

Sherlock unfolds the papers and skims their contents.

“You’re -” he starts, and then stops. He blinks several times, reading over the words again. “Discharged.”

Victor hums in response and adjusts the blanket thrown over his legs.

“Retired, discharged, unemployed...” he trails off and fixes Sherlock with a small smile. “Whatever you prefer to call it.”

“But your work...”

Victor gives a small shrug.

“I can’t do it anymore.” Victor sobers for a moment. “My legs aren’t going to get any better; the explosion in Belgium knocked out some of the hearing in my left ear; there’s scarring on my lungs from all those illnesses. And the poison... well.”

He gestures vaguely at himself. Though all traces of the poison have now left his body and he responded well to antitoxin treatment, the fact that he was very ill is still apparent, and probably always will be. The poison added lines to his face, and he is grey beyond his years. He appears now as though he could be a contemporary of Lestrade’s, and though he doesn’t often mention it, Sherlock knows that it bothers him.

“I’m far beyond my peak,” Victor goes on. “I can’t even compete with the best of them anymore. It’s fine; we always knew this day would come. Agents in your brother’s service don’t stay with him much beyond thirty, so I was pretty lucky. He’s given me a... very generous severance. And more commendations and honours than I know what to do with. I had to threaten him with bodily harm when he mentioned the knighthood.”

“Mm. He’s threatened me with that twice now.” Sherlock sets the letter aside. Victor chuckles.

“Can you imagine if you’d taken him up on it? _Sir Sherlock_. You’d never live that down; I’d make sure of it.”

“As if yours would be better!” Sherlock leans over and brushes his fingers along Victor’s side. _“Sir Victor_.”

Victor fails to suppress an undignified yelp and then dissolves into laughter, shoving Sherlock’s hand away.

“I quite like the sound of that, come to think of it,” he manages between chuckles. “And don’t make me laugh, that fucking hurts. _Damn_ , I hate you sometimes.”

Sherlock snorts.

“No, you don’t,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. Victor hums against his mouth.

“No, I don’t,” he agrees. Sherlock settles back into the seat, and Victor leans against him.

“Oh! Don’t tell anyone,” Victor says suddenly, comically serious, and he presses a finger to Sherlock’s lips, “but John and Greg are planning a surprise party for you.”

“Are they, now?” Sherlock says, amused at how quickly the medication causes Victor to slip in and out of lucidity. He kisses Victor’s finger. “Tonight?”

“Mm-hmm.” Victor closes his eyes and lets his head fall onto Sherlock’s shoulder. “You hate parties.”

Sherlock wraps an arm around Victor’s shoulders.

“I believe I can suffer through this one.”

\----

It’s not often that Victor dreams.

When he does, though, lately it’s been of the hospital. He dreams tonight of needles that slide into his veins, all the way up his arms, bulging through the delicate skin. He dreams of torn blood vessels and needles tearing through his flesh, and he wakes up feeling nauseated.

It takes Victor several long minutes to try to convince his sleep-fogged mind that he’s not in the hospital, that there are no needles in his arms and he can move them without the threat of bursting blood vessels. But the imagined pain lingers still, and his left arm throbs all the same. And when finally he’s able to compel himself to move, he simply rolls onto his side, folding his arms tightly across his chest as though he can ward off the phantom needles.

But now sleep is elusive, and Victor spends several long minutes staring at the opposite wall, willing his heart rate back under control. The space next to him is empty, Sherlock’s sheets and pillow having gone stone cold in the hours since he left the bed. Victor, sore and groggy but knowing that any further attempt at sleep tonight is futile, hauls himself out of bed and reaches for his dressing gown.

He finds Sherlock in the main room, holding a beaker in one hand and texting with the other.

“Goggles,” Victor reprimands softly, and Sherlock glances at him over his shoulder before acquiescing to the request and grabbing his goggles off a nearby table.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Sherlock accuses mildly as he slips them on his face. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Victor murmurs. He wraps his dressing gown tighter around his body and sinks into a nearby armchair with a sigh. “What’re you working on?”

“Experiment,” Sherlock says absently as he turns back to his phone. He then whirls away and disappears into the kitchen for a brief moment. There is a hissing sound and a soft _pop_ , and then Sherlock re-emerges sans beaker and goggles. 

“A successful one?” Victor asks drowsily.

“We’ll know in the morning.” Sherlock leans over him, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, and their noses brush. Sherlock gives Victor a light kiss and asks, quietly, “Pain?”

“No.”

“Dreams?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

Victor snorts and steals another kiss. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“That’s not an answer.” He straightens and holds out his hand. Victor takes it and gets pulled to his feet. 

“Oi, careful with the invalid,” he mutters, swaying. Sherlock slips an arm around his waist, holding him steady. “Come to bed?”

“No, I should work on– ” Sherlock stops abruptly. “I mean, yes. Of course.”

Victor smiles to himself.

“Did you just choose me over the work?” he asks in mock surprise. Sherlock’s face turns suddenly earnest.

“Always.”

\----

Sherlock plays the violin once.

He plays it on an afternoon when Greg and John are at work and Victor is sleeping in the bedroom once again. Victor wakes to the sound of off-key notes and frustrated strains. He lies in Sherlock’s bed for close to half an hour, misery holding his heart in a tight fist, and listens as the attempt at music tapers off and is replaced instead with a string of heartbreaking curses. He remembers the concerts of old, and realises that he hasn’t heard Sherlock perform in close to a decade. Now, he likely will never hear it again. 

And though Victor would give his own fingers in a heartbeat if it meant Sherlock could have his own back, that thought is a foolish flight of fancy. He cannot make this better for Sherlock.

But if Sherlock can’t play one instrument, perhaps he can supplement it with another.

“What’s this?” Sherlock asks one day when he returns to the flat. He’s coming off the high of having solved another case, his eyes bright and his hair mussed from the number of times he’s run his fingers through it.

Victor is sitting in the armchair once again, but this time he isn’t sleeping. Exhaustion has been tugging at the back of his mind all afternoon, but he’s been able to fight it off thus far with a couple of books and a cup of tea.

“A piano,” he answers.

Sherlock gives him a withering look.

“Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure why I put up with you.”

Victor laughs.

“It’s the one from my father’s house. Well, _one_ of the ones from my father’s house. I had it brought over this morning. I thought it might be nice to have around.”

And that’s not the reason, they both know that, because the main room feels too small now with the piano taking up space in the corner and no one living here has played the instrument in years, if at all.

But later that evening, Victor wakes from yet another nap in the armchair to find Sherlock sitting at the piano, picking out a few, gentle chords with his right hand.

\----

Victor’s recovery is slow.

By the time the end of January rolls around, he’s finally spending more hours during the day awake rather than asleep. He is still underweight, having lost a good deal of muscle mass to the poison, but there comes a point when climbing a flight of stairs no longer winds him, and he starts taking Charlie for walks in an effort to regain some of his strength. By mid-February, Victor is running again, and though he still feels the strain in his lungs, it’s no longer crippling.

Other areas of Victor’s life start to settle as well. He starts to bring more of his personal items out of storage, and soon his books begin to appear on the shelves next to Sherlock’s and his clothes start to occupy space in Sherlock’s wardrobe. He has the tattoo inked back into his skin, and Sherlock finds it as riveting now as he did back at university. He flips Victor over onto his front and takes him from behind their first coupling after the hospital, fingers tracing the wings of the hawk as they flex in time with Victor’s muscles. 

They live nearly on top of one another in Baker Street, which presents a challenge when John and Lestrade are at the flat as well. The tiny kitchen isn’t large enough for four grown men to navigate in the morning, not to mention the fact that the one bathroom forces them to stagger their schedules. Sherlock tries to solve this dilemma by occasionally sharing the shower with Victor, but given the fact that it actually results in them taking twice the time--and, from the flush at the base of John’s neck when they emerge, isn’t as soundproof as they might have hoped--Victor puts a quick stop to it.

Well. During the working week, that is.

Nonetheless, Victor starts looking for a place of his own by mid-March. He is mildly successful at first, and even finds a couple of flats within ten minutes of Baker Street that look promising. He narrows his list of possibilities down to five, and that’s when it gets strange.

The first two flats are purchased within days of Victor expressing interest in them. The third suffers a rat infestation, the fourth has unexpected electrical problems, and the fifth catches fire.

Victor is too used to living around the Holmes boys to be impressed by it.

“All right,” he says one afternoon after Sherlock comes home from working on a case, “what’s going on?”

Sherlock gives him a puzzled look.

“What?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Victor huffs. “It always has to be a show with you, doesn’t it? Look, if you didn’t want me to move out, all you had to do was say so.”

The puzzled expression melts from Sherlock’s face, and he looks irritated.

“I _told_ Mycroft the fire was too obvious,” he mutters, shedding his jacket and hanging it on the back of the door.

“Wait. That was _Mycroft?”_

John comes out of the kitchen, balancing his laptop on one hand and holding a cup of tea in the other.

“You have to admit, Victor,” he says as he sits down at the table by the window, “there’s nothing that says true love like your boyfriend getting his brother to burn down a flat for you.”

Victor’s weary, “He’s _not_ my boyfriend” is nearly drowned out by Sherlock’s, “It wasn’t _my_ idea!”

They stop and stare at one another, and then at John, who looks bemused for a moment.

“Oh!” he says, realisation dawning. “Right, I’ll just - be over here. Er, no. I’ll be upstairs.”

He hurries from the room, leaving them to their conversation. Victor looks back at Sherlock, hands braced on his hips.

“Well?”

Sherlock reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls out a key, which he lobs at Victor.

“That’s a key for here,” he says as Victor catches it. He sounds almost hesitant. “Baker Street. If... if you like, that is.”

Victor closes a hand around the key.

“How long have you been carrying this around?” he asks finally. Sherlock looks almost sheepish.

“Three weeks.”

“Sherlock...”

“Back at the hospital, when I suggested that you stay permanently, it was said mostly in jest,” Sherlock says. “But these past few weeks... I’m not sure I want them to end.”

“We’ve never lived together,” Victor points out. “Not really, at least.”

“Seventeen years,” Sherlock says softly. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”

Victor stares at the key in the palm of his hand for a moment before touching it, as though he couldn’t be entirely sure it was real.

“Has it really been that long?” he murmurs. “Seventeen years. God. Not nearly long enough, wouldn’t you say?”

He meets Sherlock’s gaze again and finds that he’s giving a cautious, relieved smile.

“No,” Sherlock says quietly. “No, I don’t think it will ever be long enough. You’ll stay, then?”

Victor grins.

“Yes.”

\----

John and Victor get along like a house on fire. 

They spend much of their time together talking themselves hoarse, trading stories about their days of service. 

“Now, get this, John. The car’s still moving at this point, okay? Now, I manage to jump and land _on top_ of it -”

“On _top?_ ” John asks, sounding both impressed and as though he fears for Victor’s sanity. “Jesus, Sherlock, are you listening to this?”

“Heard it,” Sherlock says absently.

They also, Sherlock has discovered, take great pleasure in tormenting him. 

“Where’s Greg tonight?” Victor asks one day. He’s come back to the flat sweaty after a run, and sprawls next to Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock pointedly moves a few inches to his right, away from Victor, and shoots him a glare. Victor retaliates by settling his legs on Sherlock’s lap, pinning him in place.

“His place,” John says as he types. Victor cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Something the matter?”

“What? Oh, no. He gets like that sometimes. Needs a few days to himself.”

Victor smirks, a look Sherlock distinctly does not like on him. At least, not at the moment.

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

John looks at him, and then at Sherlock. He grins.

“You aren’t allowed to leave this flat anymore,” Sherlock says the next time he sees Lestrade. Lestrade arches an eyebrow at him.

“Oh?”

“Those two,” Sherlock nods out into the main room, where Victor and John are once again deep in conversation, “are _insufferable._ They ambush me when you aren’t around.”

Lestrade stifles a laugh.

“What’d they do to you this time?”

“We watched... a _movie.”_ Sherlock’s lip inadvertently curls at the memory. John and Victor have distinctly juvenile senses of humour sometimes, and when Lestrade isn’t around to be a dissenting voice they subject themselves to movies which are labeled _comedy_ but really should be instead classified as _a danger to brain cells_. 

Lestrade shakes his head, still chuckling, and gives Sherlock a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. 

“Sorry, lad. I’ll try to give you some warning next time.”

“Yes, see that it doesn’t happen again.”

\----

Sherlock continues to take cases during Victor’s first few months at Baker Street, but as Victor heals and starts to be more like himself again, Sherlock finds that he no longer has the desire to expend his brainpower on private cases when it could be better utilized elsewhere. Victor is a distraction, he always has been, but one that Sherlock is more than glad to indulge in. He could spend a lifetime with Victor and it still wouldn’t be enough to understand everything about him.

He simply doesn’t need the work, not when he has Victor. And he doesn’t want it, not when it could distract him from the man he once thought lost forever. 

And so, as March grows old and Victor grows stronger, Sherlock closes down his website.

It takes Victor less than two days to notice.

“Sherlock,” Victor asks quietly one afternoon, coming into the kitchen, “why did shut your website down?”

Sherlock looks up from his microscope.

“Ah,” he says. Victor arches an eyebrow at him.

“Ah, indeed,” he says. “I thought you were getting some good cases.”

Sherlock nods and switches out the slides on his microscope.

“I was,” he says. “Well. I still am. But I don’t want the work anymore, Victor. I don’t need it.”

Victor folds his arms and leans against the counter, his brows furrowing.

“You live for the work, though.”

Sherlock looks up.

“No,” he says softly, “I live for _you.”_

Victor flushes and looks away.

“I can’t solely be responsible for your happiness, Sherlock,” he says.

“I know.”

“That’s asking far too much of me.”

_ “I know.” _

They stare at one another for a beat.

“What will you do?” Victor asks finally. “You know what you’re like, Sherlock, when you don’t have something to occupy your mind. I can’t be everything for you. Not everything you need, at least.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“I have my experiments,” he says. “I have some papers I’ve been meaning to write. I haven’t published anything since before you died; it will be good to do that again. And I’ll still take cases for Lestrade--I owe him that much. But only for him.”

Victor nods to himself.

“If you’re sure...”

“I am,” Sherlock says firmly. Victor considers him for a long minute.

“Well, I hope you weren’t thinking about moving to the cottage in the next few years,” he says, somewhat hesitant. “Because, well… I was thinking about finding work myself somewhere.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “You don’t need to work.”

“I know. But I want to.”

Sherlock folds his arms across his chest, thinking. 

“What would you do?”

“I’m not sure,” Victor says, rubbing the back of his neck absently. “Teaching, probably. I - er - well, it seems I have a knack for it.”

What he doesn’t say is that this isn’t simply a job, it’s another form of redemption. There are people who never came home because of him, and he can’t change that fact--nor would he, if he had to do it all over again. But he can do this; he can make this contribution. Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have scoffed at the sentiment. Because it’s Victor, though, he keeps his thoughts to himself. 

“I can call Mycroft,” he offers tentatively. Victor gives him an amused smile.

“Thanks, Will,” he says, “but this is something I want to get on my own.”

He makes to leave the room.

“Vic?”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock offers him a smile, and then winks at him.

“Good luck.”

\----

Victor, though he has largely recovered from his injuries, still battles some residual effects from his illness. Exhaustion seems to be chief among them. This evening he is stretched out on the sofa, a book abandoned on his chest and an arm thrown over his eyes while he sleeps. It’s the second time Sherlock has caught him napping today. 

And normally Sherlock would scold him for this, but he’s bone-tired himself, having just come back to the flat after an entire day spent on a stakeout with Lestrade and his team. 

“No, don’t get up,” he says quietly when he sits down on the edge of the sofa to kick off his shoes and Victor starts to rouse. 

“Joining me?” Victor murmurs as Sherlock pushes his legs aside and climbs fully onto the sofa. Sherlock hums in agreement and settles down next to him.

Large as the sofa is, it was never meant to accommodate two grown men sprawled across it, and so Sherlock lies mostly on top of Victor. He presses a thigh between Victor’s legs and rests his head on Victor’s chest, over his heart. The arm that isn’t wrapped around Victor’s torso is pinned between Victor’s body and the back of the sofa, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to mind. He covers Victor like a blanket and it won’t be comfortable for very long--in fact, it’s not very comfortable to begin with. Victor’s sharp left hip digs into Sherlock’s stomach and the hard muscles of Victor’s chest are a far cry from a pillow.

But the fact that he _can_ do this--that he can lie on the sofa with his lover four years after Victor’s supposed death--that alone makes the discomfort seem less than trivial.

“Bloody heavy, you are,” Victor grumbles, but it doesn’t sound like he truly minds. He rests a hand on the back of Sherlock’s head, threading his fingers through the curls that are beginning to grow unruly. “And bloody freezing, too. Were you out in this rain all day?”

“Stakeout,” Sherlock murmurs.

Victor’s heart is beating under his ear, an irregular thud that Sherlock’s not used to hearing from his chest.

“It’s the medicine,” Victor murmurs when Sherlock mentions it. “Makes me jittery as all hell. I feel as though I’m constantly running a marathon.”

But it’s a brand-new sound, a tune that is uniquely Victor, a tarantella instead of a march but Sherlock loves it all the same. He closes his eyes, stilling the fingers that had been absently stroking Victor’s arm and slowing his breathing as much as possible, until only Victor fills his senses. His heartbeat drowns out all other noise; Sherlock feels nothing else apart from the rise and fall of his chest.

Victor is home, Victor is here, and Victor is _everything_.

\---

Sherlock wakes one night with his head on Victor’s shoulder, one arm draped across Victor’s chest while the other is trapped awkwardly between their bodies and quickly losing feeling. Victor has his free arm, the one not wrapped securely around Sherlock’s shoulders, flung up over his head. His head is turned away from Sherlock, nose pressed into his arm, and he breathes heavily with every other exhale, as though it is a failed snore.

Sherlock can feel the brand-new scar tissue from Victor’s most recent bullet wound through his thin t-shirt, and he moves his arm so that it rests across Victor’s stomach instead. He then dozes for a while, but as the thin line of grey along the horizon begins to lighten to blue, he knows that sleep is lost on him for the rest of the night.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and rakes a hand through his hair, gazing down at Victor. He hasn’t stirred. Sherlock then runs the back of his finger down Victor’s cheek.

“Love you,” he mutters gruffly, and then slides out of bed.

Two weeks later, Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone while the rest of the flat bustles around him. Everyone is here today--Charlie is underfoot, John’s in the shower, and Lestrade is trying to fix a much-needed cup of coffee before work. Victor breezes out from the bedroom, dressed in a suit and barefoot. He has an interview at a local university today.

“Socks?” he asks as he brushes past Sherlock, touching the back of his neck affectionately as he goes.

“Behind the sofa,” Sherlock answers without looking up. He tips his chair back until it is resting on its two back legs, and balances there with the back of his foot hooked around the table leg. Victor locates his socks, hops into them, and comes back into the kitchen just as Lestrade is leaving, cup of coffee in hand. They nearly collide, laugh nervously about the almost-disaster, and then exchange quick hellos before Lestrade is out the door.

Victor makes two cups of coffee and puts one on the table in front of Sherlock. And then, as he passes behind Sherlock on his way back into their room, he pauses to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s collarbone and gives him a tight hug from behind. His lips brush the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

“Love you, too, nutter.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Fall of Gods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127981) by [corviine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corviine/pseuds/corviine)




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